Dead in the Water

by Denise Swanson

  “I can imagine.” Skye shook her head. “How wonderful that your congregation was prepared and able to open up the church to give them shelter so quickly.”

  “When Pastor Braden came to us, he encouraged us to organize a disaster recovery team.” The volunteer smiled. “He got us all mobilized.”

  “A man of foresight. I like that in a minister,” Carson murmured, then asked, “What is the one thing you need most right now?”

  “Baby formula, bottles, baby food, diapers, and wipes,” the woman reeled off without even pausing to think. Then added, “Portable cribs and car seats.”

  “Will someone be here to accept delivery?” Carson waited for the woman to nod. When she did, he took his cell from his pocket, glanced at Skye, and said, “I’m putting my PA on it. I’ll be right back.”

  Once Carson stepped outside, the woman looked at Skye and asked, “Is he for real?”

  “Yep.” Skye beamed. “He’ll have everything on your list here by morning.”

  “Wow.” The woman’s eyes widened. “You’re married to the chief of police right? Wally Boyd?”

  “I am.” Skye half expected the woman to mention Wally’s disappearance, but evidently the tornadoes had screwed up Scumble River’s grapevine, because the volunteer didn’t say a word about him being missing.

  “And you said that guy was your father-in-law?” the woman asked.

  “Uh-huh.” Skye winced. With Carson around, it really wasn’t going to be possible to keep the Boyd family’s affluence a secret much longer. They’d have to come up with a plan to manage the information.

  “So your father-in-law has some serious money?” The woman’s gaze was speculative.

  “Not him personally,” Skye said quickly. “But he works for a very generous company. He’s probably contacting their HR department.”

  “Right.” The woman’s interest waned. “We’re now a tax deduction.”

  “Yep. You know how big business likes their write-offs,” Skye agreed. “So, I’m just going to go see if I can find Billie Lyons. Okay?”

  “Sure.” The woman sighed and picked up her phone. “Back to wrangling volunteers.”

  As Skye stepped away from the table, her cell dinged. With Wally missing, she’d turned the volume to high so she wouldn’t miss any calls or messages. Of course, that meant that May could reach her, too. Crossing her fingers, she checked to see who was contacting her.

  Instead of news that Wally had been found, it was a text from Trixie. Yesterday afternoon, after hearing about Wally’s disappearance from Charlie, who got the scoop from May, Trixie had called to ask if she could do anything for Skye. But Trixie and Owen had their own tornado-related problems and Skye had reassured her friend that everything that could be done was being done.

  Trixie’s text was just checking to see if anything had changed and another offer of assistance. Skye quickly replied that there was no news and she didn’t need any help at the present.

  She’d gotten similar calls from her brother and sister-in-law, and others on May’s phone tree. But everyone had their own troubles and there really wasn’t anything anyone could do to find Wally.

  Tucking her cell into the outside pocket of her purse for easy access, Skye entered the church hall. Cots were arranged into family groups with cardboard cartons positioned between the clusters in an attempt to give the occupants a semblance of privacy.

  Now that the neighborhoods had been reopened, most of the people staying in the shelter were probably at their homes, searching for any undamaged possessions, leaving the large auditorium nearly deserted. If Roy hadn’t mentioned that the crime scene techs had cordoned off the Lyons house until they had time to process it, Skye would have wondered if Billie was at her home, looking for salvageable belongings like the other survivors.

  Hearing noise from the hall’s kitchen, Skye inhaled, smelling oregano, garlic, and tomatoes cooking. It had to be spaghetti: an old church-supper standby that was low cost, could feed a crowd, and was relatively easy to throw together.

  Skye’s stomach growled at the appetizing odor and she noticed a table along the rear wall holding a massive urn and several trays of various mouthwatering pastries. The pot had to have contained at least a hundred cups of coffee and a giant box of tea bags was sitting next to a smaller container sporting a sign that read HOT WATER.

  As Skye walked to the table and examined the goodies, she was 99 percent sure the muffins, scones, and Danishes were from Orlando Erwin, the baker and co-owner of Tales and Treats. She hoped the food was an indication that the combination bookstore and café hadn’t been damaged by the storm.

  Orlando’s wife was definitely the type to have a generator ready for any emergency. And Skye smiled at the thought of folks able to take a break from the destruction at the café.

  Resisting the tasty temptations, Skye made her way through the improvised aisles, searching for Billie Lyons. Having seen the murder victim’s wife and mother-in-law when the two women had been asking May to find Zeke the night of the tornado, Skye was certain she’d be able to recognize the pair.

  She worked her way from the back to the front, intent on getting a look at each person present. White tent cards with the names of the absent occupants were placed on many of the empty cots, and when Skye reached the entrance, her shoulders drooped. There had been no sign of Billie.

  “Excuse me.” A tiny elderly gentleman dressed in a navy, three-piece, pin-striped suit tapped Skye’s arm. “Are you looking for someone?”

  “I am.” Skye smiled at him and held out her hand. “I’m Skye Denison-Boyd. I work for the Scumble River Police Department, and we’re trying to locate Billie Lyons. Do you know if she is, or was, here?”

  “Bartolommeo Capuchini, at your service.” He glanced at Skye’s large baby belly and waved her toward a folding chair next to a cot. “Perhaps it would be best if you got off your feet while we talk.”

  “Thank you.” Skye sat down. “It is hard to stand for too long.”

  “Please allow me to fetch you a cup of tea and a pastry.” Bartolommeo bowed slightly. “The lemon-blueberry scones are outstanding.”

  Before Skye could decline, the sweet, little man hurried off. Oh, well. One of Orlando’s treats would hit the spot around now. It was 4:39, and who knew when she’d get a chance to eat supper?

  While Skye waited for Bartolommeo to return, she kept her eye on the auditorium’s entrance. A steady stream of people was trickling into the church hall. The families displaced by the tornadoes were doubtlessly returning for a hot meal after spending the day combing their destroyed houses, looking for any bits and pieces of their lives that had survived the destruction. Come rain, or sleet, or gloom of twister, Scumble Riverites preferred to dine at five o’clock sharp.

  Most of the folks coming into the shelter were dirty and sweaty, and Skye glanced around the room. She doubted that there were showers available anywhere in the facility. The poor people would likely have to make due with sponge baths in one of the church’s restrooms.

  Skye suddenly felt guilty for the comfort of the motor home that her father-in-law had provided. Although Carson was already doing a lot, perhaps he would be willing to bring in a portable shower trailer like the one she had seen on the news after a disaster had hit another community.

  After all, her father-in-law was a generous man and truly wanted to help out his son’s adopted community. As soon as he got back from making his phone call about the baby supplies, Skye vowed to ask him if arranging for bathing accommodations for the shelter would be possible.

  Carson still hadn’t appeared when Bartolommeo returned, carrying a tray containing two cups, sugar and creamer packets, plastic utensils, paper napkins, and a plate of goodies. He rested his burden on the cardboard box next to his cot. The carton had been covered with a piece of gingham cloth, and a vase holding a single yellow gladiolus was pla
ced in the very center.

  Bartolommeo perched on the edge of the cot and proceeded to transfer the tray’s contents to the makeshift table, folding the napkins and arranging the plastic silverware as if they were about to have a party.

  When he was satisfied, he asked, “How do you take your tea, my dear?”

  “Just as it is will be fine.” Skye accepted the cup and took a sip.

  “May I tempt you with one of Mr. Erwin’s delectable masterpieces?” Bartolommeo’s hand hovered over the dish of pastries.

  “A scone would be lovely.” For a moment, Skye felt as if the tornado had blown her into Oz and Bartolommeo was actually one of the Munchkins.

  “Excellent choice.” Bartolommeo twinkled at her. “I’ll join you.”

  Once he finished serving her, Skye prodded, “Were you going to tell me about Billie Lyons? I’m afraid I’m a bit pressed for time.”

  “Ah, the charming Billie.” Bartolommeo sipped his tea. “Where to begin?”

  “Has she been staying here at the shelter?” Skye wondered if the man truly had any information to share or was just lonely.

  “She and her unpleasant mother spent last night here.” Bartolommeo broke off a corner of his scone and popped it into his mouth.

  “Do you know if they’re planning to come back tonight?” Skye asked.

  “Does anyone know for sure where they’ll lay their heads anymore?”

  “No. I guess not.” Skye shoved down her impatience. As in counseling, there was rarely any way to make someone disclose information before they were good and ready to talk about it. “But what’s your best guess?”

  “I sorely doubt it.” Bartolommeo chewed thoughtfully. “Billie got a call about picking up Zeke’s dog, and she was determined to find a place that allowed pets. Her mother tried to talk her into having the animal euthanized, but Billie’s grown a backbone since she got married, and she refused.”

  “You sound like you know Billie pretty well,” Skye murmured encouragingly.

  “I’ve lived next door to her mother for the past forty years,” Bartolommeo said slowly, then asked, “How much do you know about Billie Lyons?”

  “Only that her home was destroyed and her husband killed.” Skye wasn’t sure if it was common knowledge yet that Zeke had been murdered, so she had kept her answer vague enough that his death could be attributed to the tornado. “What can you tell me about her?”

  “Sweet Billie was one of those women unequipped for the modern world.” Bartolommeo sighed. “For a long time, she reminded me of that song ‘Delta Dawn.’”

  “In what way?” Skye took a sip of tea, trying to remember the lyrics.

  “She was always a pretty, little thing, but for one reason or another, she never married.” Bartolommeo scowled. “And she always appeared a little lost.”

  Hmm. Skye frowned. That wasn’t how Billie had seemed when she was trying to get May to have the police search for her husband.

  “I heard she and Zeke dated for many years,” Skye said. “Do you have any idea why they didn’t get married until recently?”

  “Oh. I have better than an idea.” Bartolommeo tsked. “Her mother didn’t want to lose her daughter to some man, so every time it looked as if Billie might accept Zeke’s proposal, Myra would develop some mysterious illness. Or fall and get hurt. Or come up with a million reasons why Billie couldn’t leave her.”

  “How did Billie finally get married?” Skye asked, glad her own mother wasn’t anywhere near as controlling as Billie’s mom. May hadn’t initially liked her daughter’s choice of groom, but she was all for her marriage and the swift production of grandchildren.

  “Billie had a health scare of her own and that seemed to put some steel in her spine.” Bartolommeo raised an eyebrow. “The whole neighborhood heard old lady Gulch screaming when Billie came home wearing a wedding band.”

  Skye chuckled, then asked, “So Billie and Zeke were happily married?”

  “Oh. My. Yes.”

  “Is there any scenario where you could see Billie killing Zeke?”

  “None.” Bartolommeo polished off his scone and wiped his fingers on his napkin. “They were so much in love that it almost hurt to watch them together.”

  Chapter 18

  “Don’t mind Mr. Joker,” said the Princess to Dorothy. “He is considerably cracked in his head, and that makes him foolish.”

  Skye hugged her father-in-law. When he’d joined her at Bartolommeo’s tea party and she’d told him about the lack of bathing facilities, he had immediately agreed to arrange for a portable shower trailer to arrive before bedtime. The folks staying at the shelter could go to sleep clean and refreshed for the first time in two days.

  As she and Carson made their way back to the Hummer, Skye’s cell rang. She hurriedly grabbed it from her purse’s outer pocket and swiped the screen.

  Her heart leaped when she saw it was Roy, but when she put the phone on speaker and answered it, the sergeant immediately said, “This isn’t about the chief. Sorry, there’s nothing new.”

  “Oh.” She blew out a disappointed breath. She’d hoped Wally had been found.

  “I…uh…hate to bother you, but…” Roy stuttered to a stop.

  “Just spill it, Roy,” Skye said impatiently. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s Earl Doozier and his kin.” Roy’s tone spoke volumes. “Things are getting out of hand with them, and I need your help to stop it.”

  Earl Doozier was the patriarch of a loosely related group known as the Red Raggers. The Red Raggers were hard to explain to anyone who hadn’t grown up in Scumble River and Skye saw the questioning look in her father-in-law’s eyes. She mouthed the word later and turned her thoughts back to Earl and his relatives.

  The Doozier clan was the reason mothers warned their children not to go into certain parts of town. They had the dubious distinction of being the most criticized family in the local newspaper’s “Shout Out” column. But only because those complaints were allowed to be anonymous, because unless someone had a death wish, they would never sign their names and purposely get on the wrong side of the Red Raggers. In a nutshell, the Red Raggers didn’t live by the rules.

  Throughout her years working as the school district’s psychologist, Skye had formed a special relationship with the Dooziers. She protected them from the bureaucracy, and they protected her from her own gullibility. Still, she didn’t like to press her luck. Earl’s wife, Glenda, hated her and someday the Red Ragger queen would ignore her husband’s objections. And when that happened, Skye would be the one in Glenda’s gunsights.

  “I’m really sorry, Roy, but don’t think I can help you,” Skye hedged. “You know with the baby and Wally missing and the murder and the tornado… It’s just too much.”

  “Yeah. I understand,” the sergeant said slowly. “But the thing is: I’m pretty sure that the chief wouldn’t want anything to mar the town’s reputation. And Earl just gave an interview to the media, claiming his family was either starting a self-defense class to help folks protect themselves from looters or they’re doing a fund-raiser to get money for all the poor homeless people living in the streets.”

  “Which is it?” Skye asked, knowing she was about to cave in and help out.

  “I couldn’t really tell.” Roy’s voice held pure frustration. “You know Earl doesn’t ever talk in any kind of straight line. For all I know, he plans on teaching people to shoot the looters and rob them, then contribute the money to the tornado victims.”

  “Fine.” Skye pressed her lips together. There was still time before Quentin and the security guys were due to arrive. “I’ll stop by Earl’s on my way home.” She firmed her tone. “But after that, I’m off duty for the day. Unless you have news about my husband, don’t call again. Because you won’t like my response.”

  Disconnecting before the sergeant could respond, she
turned to her father-in-law, rolled her eyes, and said, “Ready for an adventure?”

  “Lead the way.” Carson grinned and helped Skye into the Hummer.

  As they drove toward Red Ragger territory, Skye attempted to clarify why she was the one handling the current crisis rather than Roy.

  “After seven years of working with the endless supply of Doozier offspring in the schools, I have a better relationship with the unconventional family than any of the other law enforcement employees in Scumble River and Stanley County.” Skye rested her hands on her baby bump. “And by that, I mean when we pull into their driveway, they are less likely to shoot first and ask questions later, than if a squad car showed up at their place.”

  “Fu—I mean fudge!” Carson looked guiltily at Skye, then asked, “How much less likely?” He raised his eyebrows, fingered the gun at his hip, and frowned. “I knew I shouldn’t have let Quentin talk me out of ordering you a maternity bulletproof vest.”

  “Is that even a thing?” Skye asked, thinking that if such a garment existed, Wally surely would have gotten her one. Not waiting for her father-in-law to answer, she continued to prepare him for what he might encounter. “I’m 99 percent sure there will be no shooting. Because of my rapport with the Red Raggers, I often act as a goodwill ambassador between the cops and the crackpots. But the Dooziers are a breed unto themselves, so there are no guarantees.”

  Carson had had a brief taste of Earl’s family at Wally and Skye’s wedding reception, but a Doozier in his or her natural habitat was a whole other animal. One that most people thought was long extinct. Like a dodo bird.

  “Tell me more about these people,” Carson ordered, keeping his eyes on the road. “Why is Sergeant Quirk so leery of them?”

  “The clan lives by their wits,” Skye started, then cautioned, “which should not be mistaken for smarts. They have their own set of rules, but those rules aren’t the same as society’s laws.”