Murder of a Real Bad Boy

by Denise Swanson

  “Yes, my dear.” The priest’s voice was kind and his expression endlessly patient.

  “Don’t you think that the story of Jonah in the Bible was the original Jaws?”

  Skye peeked over Vince’s shoulder in time to see a flicker of amusement in Father Burns’s eyes, but he answered with a straight face. “You might be right. Perhaps if you study the Bible, you’ll find even more movie inspira-tions.”

  The redhead nodded seriously, then brightened. “I bet I could find something to write about in there that would make me a million dollars.”

  The priest deftly moved Bunny along, saying, “Don’t forget the church’s cut if you do.”

  Skye hung back, letting Vince talk to Father Burns alone until she was sure Bunny had exited.

  Then she greeted the priest, who patted her hand and said, “Skye, I was so sorry to hear about your terrible experience finding poor Beau Hamilton.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “If you want to talk, I’m here.” The priest was tall and thin with the face of an ascetic. “You know, sometimes even those who counsel others need counseling.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Skye answered, then asked, “Did you know Beau?”

  “Yes, he was a parishioner.”

  “Really?” Skye was taken aback.

  “You seem surprised. Why?”

  “I never noticed him at Mass or any other church func-tion.”

  “And?” Father Burns’s faded blue eyes quizzed her.

  “And he didn’t act very . . . very . . .” She trailed off, not knowing how to complete her thought.

  “Beau had a difficult life, and often made poor choices because of that, but he kept trying to be better, which is all God asks of us.”

  “Sorry, Father.” Skye’s face flamed and she wished she could twitch her nose and disappear. “Someday I’ll learn not to judge other people so harshly.”

  The priest nodded, and as he turned to the next member of his flock, he said to Skye, “That’s a good lesson to learn about judging yourself, too.”

  Skye thought about Father Burns’s comment as she and Vince made their way down the outside steps.

  At the bottom, Vince asked, “McDonald’s or the Feed Bag?” There weren’t many places in town open on Sunday.

  She weighed the choices in view of wanting privacy, and finally said, “Let’s go to McDonald’s. We’re less likely to run into as many people we know there.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll meet you there.” Skye started off to the right. “The lot was full so my car’s parked on the street.” He nodded and headed in the opposite direction.

  When Skye got to the Bel Air, she noticed a white rec-tangle under her windshield wiper. Shoot. She must have been too close to that hydrant after all. She ripped the slip of paper free and turned it over, then smiled. It was a warning ticket signed by Wally. He had fined her thirteen kisses for stealing his heart.

  Then Skye’s smile faded. Things were going too fast with Wally. She had never been one to rush into a relationship.

  She liked to take her time and assess the situation.

  On the other hand, her record with men was abysmal, and perhaps it was time to change her ways. One of Father Burns’s previous sermons came back to her.

  He had quoted Barbara J. Winter. “When you come to the edge of the light and are about to step into the darkness, faith is knowing that one of two things will occur. Either there will be something to stand on or you will be taught to fly.” Maybe Wally was God’s test of faith for her.

  Fourteen Seconds

  When Skye arrived at McDonald’s, Vince had staked out a booth in the back corner and had two cups waiting on the table.

  Skye slid into the seat opposite him and pried open the plastic lid. Steam rose, along with the soothing scent of tea.

  “Thanks. I’ve been drinking so much coffee lately, I thought I might have to resign from the Earl Grey Society.”

  “You’re welcome.” Vince poured the contents of two sugar packets and two tubs of nondairy creamer into his cup, stirred, then said, “So, what’s up?”

  “Mom’s dander.”

  “Oh. My sin of lateness, right?”

  “That and refusing to say why.”

  Vince sipped from his cup, then added another packet of sugar. “They caught me off guard. I should have had an excuse ready.”

  “Exactly. With Mom you never have the right to remain silent — anything you don’t explain will be misinterpreted, then used against you.”

  “It’s too late now for a simple explanation, like ‘I slept in,’ isn’t it?”

  “Way too late. You broke the fourteen-second rule. You know that if you don’t have an answer for Mom in under fourteen seconds, she thinks you’re keeping something from her.” Skye shook her head. “Why were you so behind schedule opening up the salon? That’s not like you. Even when your band plays until two in the morning you’re always at work on time.”

  “It’s private.”

  “So I gathered. But you can tell me. I promise not to tell Mom.”

  “It’s better if you don’t know right now.” Vince made circles on the tabletop with the liquid that had spilled from his cup.

  Skye gave him a calculating glance. The last time he wouldn’t tell her something, he’d been dealing with a stalker, and one of his band members had ended up dead.

  “Help me come up with something to tell Mom,” he said now, “and you’ll be the first to know the real story when I’m ready to talk about it.”

  Skye knew that trying to force someone to come clean was useless, so she nodded. “Okay, here’s what I’ll report to Mom. You went out Friday night with your friends, got drunk, and ended up spending the night on one of your pal’s couches.”

  “Why didn’t I tell her that when she asked?”

  “You were embarrassed in front of Aunt Kitty.”

  “That’s good.” Vince shook his head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a darn good liar. Did they teach you that in graduate school?”

  “Right. It was a two-part class. Fabrication and Men-dacity .”

  Vince snorted and coffee shot out of his nose. Skye handed him a napkin. No matter how good-looking they were, boys would be boys.

  After cleaning himself up, he said, “Hey, I don’t know why Mom is so worried about me. I don’t go around finding dead bodies.”

  “No, you go around enjoying live ones.”

  “Very funny.” Vince made a face. “What’s the scoop on Hamilton’s murder?”

  “Did you know Beau?”

  “Yeah, sort of. He hung around a lot at the bars the band plays at.”

  “Was he into drugs? Did he sell them?”

  “No way.” Vince’s voice was firm. “Did someone say that he did?”

  “Sheriff Peterson claims he was murdered because of a drug deal gone bad.”

  Vince whistled. “Well, that would be a neat solution, but I don’t believe it.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t hang with that crowd at the bars, and I saw him walk away when drugs were being used.” Skye drummed her fingers on the table. “That’s what his sister says, too.”

  “Now if you said he was killed because he fu— uh, had sex with the wrong girl, that I’d believe.”

  “You mean like a jealous boyfriend?”

  “Or husband,” Vince drawled. “Beau didn’t care what their marital status was as long as they had big boobs and a tiny brain.”

  “Why did the women go along with that? Why would they risk their marriages for a fling? They had to know he was only using them.”

  “Well.” Vince struggled to explain Beau. “He was hot and he was charming. And even if he was with that girl for only one night, for that night he concentrated only on her.

  He made her feel like she was the most beautiful, most important girl he’d ever been with.” Vince grinned. “Girls eat up that kind of attention.”

  “L
ovely. Why didn’t you tell me this when I decided to hire him to fix up my house?”

  Vince shrugged. “What does his sex life have to do with renovating your house?”

  “Weren’t you worried he might try to get me into bed?”

  “No. You’re not his type at all.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Skye swatted her brother’s hand. “I am far from flat-chested,” she teased.

  “True.” Vince reached up to play with his ponytail, but quickly jerked his hand back down to the table. “But don’t forget the second qualification — your IQ is bigger than your bra size.”

  Skye barely heard Vince’s last sentence; instead she stared at his head with her mouth hanging open. “Oh, my God! You cut your hair.” At that instant she knew there were grounds to start worrying. He had worn a ponytail for close to twenty years and there was only one reason she could think of that he would ever cut it off. “Now I know there’s a woman involved. Who is she?”

  “I do not have a new girlfriend.” Vince tried to look innocent. “Where did you get an idea like that?” Skye pointed to his head. “You’ve worn your hair long since you got out of high school. The only reason you would ever cut it was if a woman talked you into it.”

  “I just got tired of long hair.”

  “Right.” Skye let the sarcasm roll off her tongue. “Next, you’ll be telling me you’ve decided to stop drumming and quit the band.”

  “Hey, getting rid of my ponytail doesn’t mean a thing.

  It’s no big deal.” Vince’s eyes gleamed with sincerity. “I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about it.”

  “Sure.” Skye didn’t believe him for a second, but said,

  “Silly me.”

  “Good.”

  She let the matter drop, figuring one of the town’s nosey parkers would tell her. Vince was crazy if he thought he could keep prime gossip material like his love life quiet from the good people of Scumble River.

  “Well, I’ve got to get going.” She slid out of the booth, stood, and kissed his cheek. “I’ll phone Mom when I get home. Remember your story if she calls you to confirm.” She waved as she walked out the door. “Talk to you later.” Pulling out of the McDonald’s parking lot, she was torn — should she go home, report to May about her conversation with her brother, and then try to get in touch with Loretta for the tenth time? Or should she stop by Wally’s and inform him of Alana’s missing car, and Vince’s certainty that Beau wasn’t into drugs?

  Even as the Bel Air veered toward Wally’s house, the good angel inside her nagged her to call him from home.

  The annoying little cherub reminded her that if she wanted Wally to take things slowly in their budding relationship, showing up at his house was not setting a good example.

  Feeling as deprived as if someone had snatched a chocolate truffle from her lips, Skye yanked the steering wheel in the opposite direction and drove home.

  For once, no one was waiting on her porch, and the front door was still locked, but there was something different.

  Skye was halfway over the threshold when she backed up and looked around. She descended the porch steps and circled the house. Aha, that was it. Her windows had been boarded up. When she left for church the holes had been covered in black plastic; now plywood was nailed over all of them. It had to be Wally.

  Skye ground her teeth. The nerve of that man. She had specifically told him not to do this. As she seethed, she stepped into the house and noticed a piece of paper that must have been slid under the door.

  It read: “Your ma was worried, so me and the guys waited for you to leave this morning, then we boarded up your windows.”

  There was no signature, but Skye recognized her father’s spiky handwriting.

  She blew a piece of hair out of her eyes. So it hadn’t been Wally. That was a relief. Although she’d bet her entire supply of Diet Coke that he’d been the one to rile May up. Still, at least he hadn’t ignored her wishes and gone ahead and done it himself. And she had to admit, it was good to know her house was secure again.

  Feeling a weight lifted off her shoulders, Skye ran upstairs to change out of her dress. She was determined to start sorting through the junk Mrs. Griggs had crammed into nearly every nook and cranny, just as soon as she finished her calls.

  But the minute she entered her bedroom, Skye knew someone had been there, again. She immediately checked the French doors, but they were securely dead-bolted. After looking through her jewelry box and the desk drawer where she kept her emergency cash supply, she was certain that nothing had been stolen. Nevertheless, a perfume bottle was knocked over on the dressing table and the edge of a scarf was sticking out of a drawer.

  Why was someone coming into her house and not taking anything? Unless they were taking Mrs. Griggs’s belongings and Skye wasn’t noticing.

  Mmm. The note had said Jed had started as soon as Skye left, which meant . . . Damn! Her aggravation intensified when she realized the creep had gotten inside despite the windows being boarded up. There must be another way into the house. Skye searched her mind for an alternate entry point. Wait a minute. Could he be coming in through the part of the roof that was torn off?

  Her head pounded and her rate of breathing increased as her frustration bubbled to the surface. Shit! Shit! Shit! She kicked over the vanity stool, then threw a perfume bottle against the wall. Neither action made her feel any better.

  What she really wanted to do was totally annihilate the swine who kept breaking into her home.

  Scanning the room, her gaze locked on the glassy-eyed stare of Bullwinkle — the nickname she had given the moose head hanging on the wall above the bed. The stuffed trophy was butt ugly. Its mouth was unbelievably huge —

  Skye wondered if it had been taxidermically enhanced to gape open that wide. The left antler was broken and hung down like the stop sign at a railroad crossing, and the hide was so moth-eaten it looked as if it had been shaved by a nearsighted barber.

  A predatory smile crept across Skye’s face as she stomped over to the bed and crawled on top of it. The ancient wood creaked menacingly under her weight, but she ignored the threat and scuttled toward the headboard. She stood — swaying as if she were balanced on a giant marshmallow — reached for the moose head, and yanked with all her might. Nothing happened. It stayed firmly attached to the plaster, goofy grin intact.

  Planting her feet more firmly, Skye grasped the head with both arms as if she were hugging it, and pulled. For a moment it looked as if the moose would win the tug-of-war, but then the nails holding it to the wall gave way with a loud screech and she flew backward.

  Skye bounced along the mattress on her derrière like a ping-pong ball, finally landing at the opposite end of the bed, momentarily dazed. Less than a second later her eyelids flew open, but everything remained dark. Reaching up, she realized her head was stuck in Bullwinkle’s mouth.

  She lay there for a moment, catching her breath, then tried to extricate herself from the moose’s jaw. Shit! The stupid thing wouldn’t come off. Visions of what she looked like wearing a moose head made her shudder. Thoughts of having to be rescued by the Scumble River fire department, and the story that would spread around town immediately afterward, rushed through her mind, motivating her to try again and again to free herself.

  On her third attempt, Skye found that if she inched the mouth over her ears one at a time, she could move it. Then with a mighty thrust she broke free. Struggling to her feet, she ran to the French doors, unlocked them, and flung them open. Sprinting back toward the bed, she grabbed the stuffed trophy, then staggered across the balcony and hurled the moose as far as she could.

  Immediately she felt better. She might not be able to keep the mysterious intruder from her house, but she had con-quered the hideous Bullwinkle.

  Nevertheless, it was time to quit messing around and get the roof and everything else fixed so she could be secure in her own home. But how?

  Dulci Smallwood! If the contractor could guarantee
a new roof by the end of the week, Skye would hire her.

  Skye would still talk to Loretta and find out what Dulci was charged with, but unless it was murdering a home-owner, she was calling Dulci today to tell her to get started.

  Having made her decision, Skye quickly stripped off her soiled dress and ruined panty hose, and pulled on gray jogging pants and a black sweatshirt. She tugged on an old pair of tennis shoes and pulled her hair back with a barrette. It was time to get to work: first phone calls, then an inventory of the old place.

  As she descended the stairs, the grandfather clock in the foyer finished chiming twice. She hoped that meant everyone she needed to talk to would be available.

  Entering the parlor, she made a mental note to call the telephone company. She needed additional jacks in the kitchen and her bedroom. The phone’s present location was both inconvenient and uncomfortable.

  Perched on the stiff settee, Skye called and left a message asking Wally if he knew where Alana’s car was, since it wasn’t parked in Skye’s driveway. She also left word about Vince’s information regarding Beau’s nonuse of drugs.

  Moving on to the next name on her list, she dialed May.

  Her mother answered immediately. “What did Vince tell you?”

  Hoping to keep the conversation short, Skye decided to forgo her usual protestations about not being her brother’s keeper and not wanting to be a stool pigeon, and reported succinctly, “He went out drinking with his buddies Friday night, got too drunk to drive, and spent the night on one of his friend’s couches.”

  “Then why didn’t he tell me that yesterday when I asked?”

  “Aunt Kitty was there and he was embarrassed.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I believe every word he said to me,” Skye said with utter conviction, remembering she had been the one to come up with the story, not Vince.

  “Okay.” Without warning May shifted gears. “Now that that’s settled, what’s this I hear about you and Wally being out on a date last night?”

  Skye opened her mouth to ask who had told May, but stopped before uttering a sound. It was probably more a question of who hadn’t told her, after Wally’s and Skye’s encounter with Priscilla the Bunco Lady.