The Doom Diva Mysteries Books 1

by Sherry M. Siska

  Tim had been among the first group of police officers to arrive and he had been assigned to me. More precisely, to obtaining a preliminary statement. So far, he wasn't doing a very good job, but far be it for me to point that out.

  One last envious glance at the folks who were taking care of the crime scene, and Tim turned back around to face me. “I forgot to ask, what’s your mom doing here?”

  I looked over to Mom's car. She was sitting in it repairing her makeup. Obviously, she was recovering quite nicely from her little gastric indiscretion.

  "Hey, Mom," I said, "bring that note over and show it to Tim."

  She came over to where we were standing.

  "Hi Miz Sheffield, how are you today?" That Tim, polite as always. His mama raised him right.

  Mom flashed him a dazzling smile. He blushed. I think he has a crush on her. Of course, I've yet to meet a man who, within knowing her for ten minutes, doesn't.

  "I've been better." She handed him the note. "I found this underneath my windshield wiper blade this morning."

  Tim took the note and read it. "Y'all wait right here a minute," he said when he'd finished. “This is evidence.”

  He ran out to the crime scene and climbed over the yellow tape. A woman dressed in a navy business suit turned around when he tapped her on the arm and spoke to her. Tim pointed to Mom and me, and to the note Mom had given him. Both of them joined us.

  "Mrs. Sheffield, Marty, this is Detective Luray," Tim said. "She wants to ask y'all a few questions."

  Mom and I said hello to Detective Luray, a trim, pretty, thirty-something brunette.

  She smiled, said hello to us, then turned to Tim. "Officer Unser, would you go ahead and dust Mrs. Sheffield's car. And then, when I'm done here, you can get these ladies’ fingerprints so we can eliminate them from the evidence."

  Tim grinned and took off toward his squad car, looking like he was going off to fight the bad guys and save the world. Super Tim to the rescue. Must be a cop thing.

  Detective Luray smiled at Mom and me and held up a plastic bag containing the note. "Mrs. Sheffield," she said to Mom, "Officer Unser said that you found this note on your vehicle this morning."

  "That's right," Mom said. "I worked at home until about twenty to eight. I found it on my car then."

  "And you decided to check it out?"

  "Not at first. I thought it was a silly prank. All during my interview, you see, I'm a reporter and I interviewed the Mayor this morning. About that new golf course proposal, you know --."

  "Yes Ma’am." Detective Luray frowned. "Now, about the note. You decided to check it out after your interview?"

  Mom bobbed her head up and down. The detective smiled.

  "Yes," Mom said. "I kept thinking about it, the whole time I was talking to the mayor. You know, come to think of it, I don't think I even asked him about --."

  Detective Luray was frowning again.

  Mom blinked a couple of times. "I'm sorry. Where was I? The note. When I left City Hall, I decided, 'what the heck, what harm can come from looking?'"

  The detective smiled.

  "Do you keep your car in a garage?" the detective said.

  "Yes," said Mom. Smile from the detective. "But Don, that's my husband, went to work early this morning. He's a supervisor over at the tire plant. Anyway, he left about three-thirty. I guess he didn't want to wake me up or something, because his garage door was still open when I went out to get in my car." She rubbed her temples. "He does that sometimes. I always tell him not to, but --."

  Frown. "How many people have handled the note?"

  I was definitely going to have to try this smiling/frowning thing myself. Mom was behaving like one of those dogs that drool when a bell rings.

  "Me, Martina, Timothy, and you."

  The detective thanked Mom and turned to me. I told her about finding the body. She didn't have to frown at me a single time.

  I sort of fudged a little and left out the part about Mom and I peeking in at the body. Somehow, I didn't think she'd appreciate it. Besides, Mom had been through enough trauma for one day, and, it wasn't really important to the story.

  When I'd finished talking, the detective looked up from her notebook. "Did you notice anything unusual?"

  "Other than the dead body, you mean?"

  She almost chuckled. At least that’s what the snorty sound she made sounded like to me. "Sorry. Yes, other than that. I mean vehicles in the vicinity of the park, things like that. "

  "Not really. Let me think for a minute, though."

  I scrunched up my eyes and tapped my mouth with my fingers. Suddenly, it popped into my head. I twisted my hair around my finger.

  "No. Nothing. Nothing at all," I said.

  I felt my face growing red. I'm not a good liar. Never have been, never will be.

  After a few more questions, Detective Luray made arrangements for us to come to the station and sign our statements. She asked us not to discuss the identity of the victim with anyone until Warren's wife, Beth, had been notified. We assured her we wouldn't. She thanked us for our assistance and slipped back over to the crime scene.

  It was just as busy as before; people running around, hollering, taking pictures. A couple of TV news vans were already on the scene, the reporters doing stand-ups with all the action going on behind them.

  Tim came loping over to us, his feet splayed out slightly, long arms swinging. He's a slightly gawky looking red-head. Almost too tall and too thin, light freckles, and a crooked grin. He's still pretty cute, in an Opie Taylorish way.

  We've been best pals since the first day of kindergarten when Steve LeFever took me in the coatroom and tried to pull my panties down. Tim rescued me. He's been rescuing me ever since. Except for the few times when I’ve had to rescue him. Usually, that involves me pretending to be his girlfriend so he can get rid of some woman who has a cop fetish or a ginger fetish. You’d be surprised at how many of both are out there in the single girl’s club.

  He took our fingerprints. "Hey, wanna meet at Pilazzo's later?" he asked me. Plaza’s is a combination pizza parlor - bar that we hang out at.

  "I gotta do a remote from four until seven over at Thompson's Precision Engines. Seven-thirty or so okay?"

  "Sounds like a plan." He started toward his cruiser, then turned back. "Hey, listen," he said, "you take care of yourself."

  Big brother. I may pick at him and fight with him, but I'm always glad he's on my side.

  I went and gave him a little hug. "Me? I'm fine. You take care of yourself. You're the one that has to fight the bad guys."

  He rolled his eyes and loped over to his squad car.

  As soon as Tim was out of earshot, Mom turned to me. "What's going on, Martina?

  "I think they're collecting evidence and stuff."

  "No. That's not what I'm talking about and you know it. You lied to that detective."

  I started to protest, but she stuck her hand over my mouth. "I'm your mother. It's my job to know these things. You give yourself away every time you try to tell a fib. The blush, the lip licking, the hair twirling. You know you can't fool me."

  Uh oh. Technically, it wasn't really a lie. At least not a big one. I was simply withholding a trivial little piece of information that probably wasn't going to mean anything anyway. Still, I certainly didn't want to share it with Mom. At least not until after I'd talked to Vanessa. I needed a diversion tactic. I wracked my brain.

  I clasped my hands behind my back to keep from twisting my hair. "I was just trying to protect you. I didn't think it would go over too well if they knew you'd been messing around the crime scene. You know how they are."

  Her face looked sunburned beneath her makeup. She shook her head and gave a big sigh.

  "Poor Beth," she said, obviously going in for a little diversion herself. "And those poor little children. They're just babies."

  "I know. I feel so bad for them. I can't imagine losing a husband. First Vanessa, now Beth. You know, they're best friends.
Isn't that weird. I mean that they both lost their husbands at such a young age."

  "Very strange. And sad," Mom said. She looked at her watch. "Good grief, it's eleven forty-five. Why don't we get out of here. Go get some tea or something cold to drink."

  "That's all?" It felt like I'd been at the park for years instead of hours.

  "Can you drive?"

  "Of course. I'm fine. Listen, thanks on the tea offer, but I'm going to go over and check on the kids." And talk to Vanessa.

  "I'll go too. Meet you there."

  Just what I needed, Mom tagging along. I'd have to think of some way to get Vanessa alone.

  Mom stopped in front of her car, her brand new white MKZ, the one that now sported a not-very-attractive coat of black gunk. She looked absolutely horrified.

  "Timothy," she said, through clenched teeth. "Timothy Cornelius Unser!"

  Tim was leaning into his squad car and when she shrieked out his name, he jerked his head up and whacked it on the door frame. All I gotta say is, I'm glad it was him and not me. His face was twelve shades redder than his hair when he reached her.

  "What have you done to my car?"

  Tim looked like he was going to cry. "I, I, I'll come over and wash it as soon as I get off work. I'll wax it too, if you want."

  Mom sighed her 'God-give-me-strength-and-patience' sigh. "No. That's all right. I'll take care of it myself."

  "No, really, Mrs. Sheffield. Please. I'll wash it for you this afternoon. Soon as I get off."

  Mom agreed to let him wash it. Personally I wasn't sure that was such a good idea. Tim doesn't have very good luck when it comes to Mom's cars. When we were thirteen we went to the grocery store with her. While she was inside, Tim and I decided to practice driving. I cruised around the parking lot a couple of times and then turned the wheel over to Tim. He was doing okay until he saw Mom coming out of the store. He panicked and smashed into one of those light poles. Four hundred-fifty dollars in damage. I didn't get my allowance for two years.

  After Mom and Tim worked out the details for him to wash her car, we left the park. I had just crossed the railroad tracks when the driver of a city trash truck flagged me down. I stopped in the sewing factory parking lot. Steve LeFever, the supervisor of the sanitation department, jumped out of the truck and ran up to my window. I turned off the engine and got out of the car. Mom, curious as always, joined us.

  Steve's a tall, muscular guy with the beginnings of a serious beer belly. Thinning-on-top shaggy blonde hair, and a crooked nose, which he broke in a high school football game, save him from being pretty. He's one of those guys that Mom unnecessarily warned me about when I was growing up. (Remember the coat closet?) He's coarse, macho, and piggish. I don’t know why, but there’s a lot of women out there who love him.

  "Marty, Mrs. Sheffield., what's going on?"

  Mom and I looked at each other. Steve was Warren's boss and one of his only friends.

  "There's been a murder," I said. "Over at the park. I found the body."

  Steve's eyes bugged out. He said a few dirty words. "A dead body? Who?" More profanity.

  The detective had warned us not to mention Warren's identity. Mom and I made non-committal noises. It didn't matter. Steve wasn't listening. He was cussing up a storm.

  "I can't believe this," he said, between curse words. "We usually get there early, about nine, and empty out the trash. We'd been on time, we would've been the ones that found it!”

  I couldn't tell if he was happy or mad about not being the one to find the body.

  "Can you believe it?" he continued. "You know why we're so late this morning? "

  Mom and I dutifully shook our heads.

  "'Cause we're still behind from last week. I had two guys out on vacation, one out with the flu. Then, today Wart didn't show up!

  I wondered what would happen when I told him the reason Wart hadn't shown up. Would Tim arrest me? I sure hoped not. "Steve, I hate to tell you this, but...," I said.

  "Hello, Steve," Tim said. I jumped about a foot. I hadn't heard his cruiser pull up. Must be one of those new stealth models.

  Tim stuck his hand out and shook Steve's. His face was as somber as I'd ever seen it. "I'm sorry to be bringing bad news, but there's been a murder and we've just confirmed that the victim is Warren Turner."

  “So, old Wart's been murdered? That son of a — “ Steve stopped mid-sentence. He swayed back and forth a little, staring without blinking at Tim. Then, he did just about the last thing you'd expect. He burst out laughing.

  Mom, Tim, and I stared at him, our mouths practically hanging open. He kept laughing and laughing. It took awhile, but he finally managed to stop.

  "Sorry," he said. "I can't believe I was laughing. I don't know what the fu—,“ he looked at Mom, "er, hell came over me." Now, all of the sudden, he's Mr. Decorum.

  Tim cleared his throat. "It's all right. It happens a lot. Are you okay now?"

  "I think so."

  Tim studied him. "I'm going over to tell Beth right now. I know y'all are close friends, and I was wondering, well, I was hoping that you might be willing to come with me? If you think you'll be okay, that is."

  "Beth," Steve said, his voice almost a moan. He looked like he might start to cry. "This is bad. She ain't strong, you know? Poor little gal, she ain't gonna take it so good."

  "You'll come with me then?" Tim asked.

  Steve didn't hear him. "I called over there this morning to see if Wart was sick or something. No answer. Guess I should have followed up more. Say what you will, but it ain't like Wart to miss work. No sir. Wart was a good worker. Didn't hardly ever lay out."

  "Don't blame yourself, Steven,” Mom said. She patted his hand. "Why don't you go with Timothy to tell Beth. She shouldn't have to face this sort of thing alone."

  He pulled away from the car and stood straight, still shaking his head. "Yeah, I'll do that. Poor little gal." He turned to Tim. "Ready when you are, buddy. I gotta tell you though, I ain't looking forward to this."

  "Me neither," Tim said. "Me neither."

  They spoke to the other men in the trash truck before getting into Tim's squad car. Mom and I watched as they drove away. I glanced back toward the park. The ambulance carrying Wart's body was slowly moving across the railroad tracks. Things were evidently winding down in there. The news vans were still in place, though. I wanted to get away before they decided to latch on to me. There had been enough violence for one day.

  6

  The Oaks of Stableford Manor. That's the name of the neighborhood Vanessa and Charli live in. Pretty la-di-da, if you ask me. I mean, it's just a bunch of regular cookie-cutter houses, sitting a little too close together, all clumped around a crummy little park and community pool. Charli says it has a great 'location', and that it's 'classy'. Personally, I'd go with boring. But, then, what else do you expect from people whose lives revolve around oak-bark mulch and fertilizer?

  The houses come in two or three basic designs and look like those paper dolls you cut out of a folded up piece of paper. You cut out one, unfold the paper, and, ta-da, you've got a whole bunch of little clones, all lined up in a row. Sure, they're nice houses, but they sort of give me the creeps. I'm always tempted to change the sign to 'The Oaks at Stepford Manor'.

  It took us about five minutes to get there from the park. Vanessa's house is one of the 'custom presidential colonial models' -- a four bedroom, two bath, brick and frame two story with a family room, garage, and a swing set in the yard. Charli lives on the street behind her, in a 'custom executive ranch home'. Their backyards touch at one of the corners.

  I left the Mustang on the street in front of Vanessa's house. Mom parked in her driveway. The house needed painting and one of the shutters was hanging crooked. Poor Vanessa; I decided I’d talk Tim into coming over and helping her out. The Oak's Neighborhood Alliance Group, ONAG for short, frowned on things like crooked shutters.

  I punched the doorbell several times. No answer. Mom was standing beside her car, se
arching for scratches.

  "Maybe they're around back," I said. "Vanessa mentioned something about the backyard."

  No one was back there.

  "Probably over at Charli's. She must be home by now." I went to the corner where the lots meet and peeked over Charli's privacy fence. Vanessa's two kids and Charli's three were playing on the swing set. I could see Charli peering out her kitchen window at them.

  Mom and I headed toward the front of Vanessa's house to get our cars. Even though the yards touched, it was one of those 'you can't get there from here' situations. All those privacy fences made it impossible to go through the yards. When I got to the front corner of the house, I stopped short.

  Mom ran into me. "Ouch! Why'd you stop?"

  I shushed her and pointed toward the street. A Channel Forty-two news truck was sitting next to my car. We flattened ourselves against the house and peeked around the corner at them.

  "That didn't take them long, did it?" Mom whispered.

  "They probably followed us."

  I didn't want to talk to anyone from the media, but especially those Channel Forty-two folks. They're into local scandal and gossip. In fact, they'd made the story of Ricky Ray ditching me before our wedding their main news topic for several weeks.

  Every time I'd turned on the TV there I was -- coming out of the station, coming out of my apartment, coming out of Pilazzo's. Always looking my worst, of course. To this day, they never mention Ricky Ray without showing a really lousy picture of me and talking about the breakup. And they talk about Ricky Ray a lot. The jerks.

  "Of all the TV stations in the Valley, they would be the ones to show up," Mom said.

  "I know. And, I can see it now, 'Dumped DJ Finds Disaster in the Dumpster, story at six, eleven, and for as long as we can come up with a snappy new headline'."

  Giselle St. James, the perky little reporter who, in my opinion, suffers from a major brain deficiency, (she doesn't have one) was peeping into my car. I did a mental inventory to see if I'd left anything embarrassing lying out in the open. Did I mention that Giselle and I have hated each other since fourth grade? Well, we have.