After thirty-two-point-one seconds of petting, he wiggled out of her arms and trotted toward the kitchen. About halfway down the hall he stopped and looked back to make sure she was following.
Skye had paused to put down her purse and apron, but reassured the feline, “Go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute. I doubt you’ll starve before I arrive.”
Bingo flicked his tail twice—to show he meant business—then continued toward his food dish.
Skye risked the wrath of the feline by poking her head into the parlor as she passed. The indicator light on her answering machine beamed a steady red. No one had tried to contact her.
Darn. She was hoping to hear that some progress had been made on the missing teen, the murder, or even the mysterious disappearing father. In any case, as soon as she fed Bingo she’d call Wally. She knew he was busy, but she needed to update him on all she had heard during the contest.
Bingo was waiting by his food bowls when Skye walked into the kitchen. One bowl held a heaping portion of dry cat food; the other had been licked so clean it looked as if it had just come out of the dishwasher.
According to the vet, Bingo was allowed one small can of wet cat food a day, at the most. He could have as much of the dry as he wished. Unfortunately, what he desired was an unending supply of the canned, and for the dry to disappear in a puff of smoke and never come back.
Most of the time Skye stood firm, parceling out his Fancy Feast a third of a can at a time, once in the morning, once when she got back from work, and the last before bed. But on days like today, when she had no idea what her schedule would be, she gave him the whole can before she left the house, which resulted in a demanding feline when she got home.
She should ignore his plaintive meows, the sad slump of his tail, and the hungry looks—just as she should ignore her own craving for chocolate and cookies. Normally she was about 50 percent successful with either endeavor, but today had been extremely stressful, and she decided both she and Bingo deserved a treat.
After putting half a can of grilled tuna flakes in the cat’s bowl, she grabbed a package of Pepperidge Farm chocolate-chunk cookies from the cupboard and headed upstairs. She shed her clothes in the bedroom, then walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
While she waited for the water to get hot—it had a long way to come from the water heater in the basement to the second floor—she tore open the cookie package and lifted out the little plastic tub containing four cookies.
The nutrition information on the side of the bag claimed a serving size was one cookie. Where did these people come from, Planet of the Barbie Dolls? Obviously a real portion should be what the plastic basket held.
Once she had showered, blown her hair dry, and gotten dressed for the square dance, Skye went downstairs to see if any calls had come in. There were still no messages, so she phoned the police department.
After exchanging pleasantries with the afternoon-shift dispatcher, Skye asked for Wally. The woman informed her that he was still working and hadn’t taken a break to answer his messages all day.
Skye tried his home number—no one answered, not even a machine—and his cell, which apparently was still broken, since it went immediately to voice mail. Frustrated, she wasn’t sure what to do. Trixie needed to get back from her vacation soon because Skye needed a brainstorming partner badly.
It was six o’clock. She had an hour before she had to show up at the pork-chop supper. What should her next move be? Her gaze wandered to the little antique desk in the corner of the parlor, and an idea came to her almost as if someone had whispered in her ear.
She’d write it all down and drop her notes at the PD. Maybe while she was there she could find out what was going on with both the missing girl and the murder.
CHAPTER 16
Pour Batter into Prepared Pans
The police department parking lot was full, which, at nearly six thirty p.m., was surprising. The PD shared a building with the city hall and library, which meant that from nine to five cars prowled the tiny lot looking for an empty space, but in the evening there were usually only two automobiles occupying slots—the dispatcher’s and that of the officer on duty.
Wally must have called everyone in, including the part-timers. What was up? Had there been a break in either one of the cases?
Skye felt a surge of triumph when a young man exited the building and approached a silver Camaro. Skye eased her Bel Air into position and waited for the guy to back out. Instead he rolled down his window and a smoke ring drifted into the night air.
Shoot! This whole not being able to find a parking spot was starting to make Skye feel like she lived in Chicago rather than Scumble River. Gritting her teeth, she exited the lot and drove down the block until she found a space.
On the walk back she noted that the town was hopping. A steady stream of traffic filled both the road the PD faced and the street it intersected, which was remarkable for a Sunday night, when most of the Scumble River population was usually at home watching 60 Minutes and preparing for the workweek ahead.
The cooking challenge’s change in schedule had probably thrown everyone off, especially with school being closed the next day. Skye had been shocked to get that message. Dante must have pulled a lot of strings and made a lot of promises to get the superintendent to cancel classes so that the contest could use the auditorium/gymnasium for the award ceremony.
Before the country’s heightened security, Fine Foods could have used the auditorium and only gym classes would have had to be canceled, but now the school district policy didn’t allow that many strangers in the building while students were present.
Maybe the fact that they hadn’t taken any of the year’s snow days helped. However, snow days were really only a technicality needed because of the way the teacher contracts were written. They still had to be made up, so now they’d have to go an extra day into the summer, a detail everyone conveniently forgot as they were celebrating their impromptu holiday.
When Skye pushed open the glass door of the PD, she immediately noticed the busy hum. She waved to the dispatcher behind the bulletproof glass window that enclosed the counter on her right, and the woman buzzed her through the door leading to the rest of the station. Cubicles that were normally empty were filled with officers who were on either the phone, the computer, or both.
One young man Skye didn’t recognize was performing percussive maintenance on his PC. He didn’t seem to realize that smacking the crap out of an electronic device rarely improved its working condition. But then, artificial intelligence had never been a match for natural stupidity.
Skye shook her head and moved on. From the snatches of conversation she heard, half the officers were looking for Ashley and half for the murderer. Had something happened to stir up the search for the missing girl?
She was tempted to stop and ask, but the men looked too busy. Not to mention she had only a short time to turn up at the supper before May sent the search-and-rescue dogs after her.
Dashing to the back of the building, she quickly climbed the steps. Wally’s office and a couple of small storage areas were the only rooms in the truncated upstairs space. There was no egress between the PD and the portion of the second floor that was located over the city hall, which contained the three-room Scumble River library.
Skye’s heart skipped a beat when she saw Wally leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. He exuded an attraction that enticed her like a golden box of Godiva chocolates. As she got closer she saw that his features were etched with exhaustion and defeat, and a soft gasp of pained empathy escaped her.
He immediately straightened, his eyelids flying open. At first he scowled, but his expression brightened when he saw Skye. In one swift movement he rose to his feet and met her halfway across the office in a fierce embrace.
She buried her face against his throat, enjoying a moment of pure pleasure.
His breath hot against her ear, he whispered, “How did you know I needed to hold yo
u?”
“Bingo told me.” She wound her arms inside his jacket and around his back.
His chuckle shed years from his face. “In that case he must be the one hanging up the phone every time I try to call you.”
“What?” Skye was distracted by the touch of his thumb stroking her jaw.
“I tried two or three times today and your machine hung up on me every time.”
“Guess I need a new answering machine.” She struggled to focus, but the tingle where his thigh brushed her hip was hard to ignore. Breathlessly she continued, “And while I’m at it, I might as well get a cell phone, too.”
“It’s about time,” he growled as he nipped at the sensitive cord running from her ear down her neck.
“Did you find out what was wrong with your …” Skye tried to concentrate. There was a reason she had stopped by, and something else she had to do tonight, but darned if she could remember. “… cell?”
“No. Bingo must have thrown it down the stairs last time I was over.” His lips hovered above hers as he spoke.
Suddenly impatient, she pressed her open mouth to his. He needed no further invitation, and his kiss devoured her.
A few seconds, or minutes, or hours later—she had no idea how much time had passed—an apologetic cough from the doorway made her lift her head.
Anthony, one of the part-time patrol officers, stood on the threshold, his face beet red. “Uh, I’m really sorry, Chief, but your phone must be off the hook, and I finally got Mr. Alexander on the line. I know you wanted to talk to him.”
After a quick squeeze and kiss on the nose, Wally released Skye. “No problem. What line?”
“Four. He sounded drunk or high or something,” Anthony added over his shoulder as he retreated down the hall.
“I’ll put it on speakerphone so you can tell me what you think,” Wally said to Skye as he turned to his desk. “This jerk has been avoiding me all day.”
Skye sat down and took a pad of paper and a pen from her purse.
Wally pressed the button and said, “Mr. Alexander, thank you for calling. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks, dude. It’s so bogus. She was so young. Who’d want her dead?” The voice on the speaker broke. “Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”
Wally shot a look at Skye, making sure she heard that, then ignored the man’s question. “I’d really like to talk to you in person, Mr. Alexander.”
“Uh, actually, man, my last name’s not Alexander; it’s Hunter. Cherry used her maiden name—you know, professionally.”
“I understand.” Wally made a note. “Sorry for the confusion. So, Mr. Hunter, would it be possible for you to come into the station now and talk?”
“Sorry, no can do. My son’s asleep and I don’t have anyone to watch him.”
Skye scribbled the words housekeeper and nanny on her legal pad and held it up for Wally to read.
He nodded and said, “How about your housekeeper or the nanny?”
“I gave Juanita the day off, and we fired the nanny Friday night when we got home from the dinner.”
“I see.” Wally made another note. “Well, maybe you can come in tomorrow, Mr. Hunter, when your housekeeper is back at work.”
“Maybe. There’s just so much to do,” Kyle whined. “We’ll see.”
“Okay. Try to get some rest, Mr. Hunter.”
After Wally hung up, Skye raised an eyebrow. “Why do I think that Kyle Hunter will have company tonight rather than take a nap?”
Wally gave her wolfish grin. “Hey, I’ve been trying to have a face-to-face with that guy since Saturday morning. At least now I know he’s home and will be staying there for a while.”
“Interesting that the nanny was fired right before Cherry’s murder.”
“If he’s telling the truth.”
“Good point.” Skye got up from her chair. “Listen, I know you’re in a hurry to go see Hunter, and I need to get to the pork-chop supper/square dance before Mom sends out the FBI’s missing persons unit, but I wanted to share some info with you.”
“How about you come over to my house when the supper and dance are over?” Wally put his hand on the small of her back and walked her out of his office.
Skye studied her watch. “That should be around ten. Is that okay?”
“Great.” He locked the door. “If something comes up, leave a message with the dispatcher, and I’ll do the same.” He frowned. “Tomorrow after the cooking contest is over, we’re both going to Joliet to buy us cell phones.”
As they descended the stairs Skye said, “Oh, remember that argument I told you about between Hunter and the nanny? I forgot to mention that he said Cherry had an air-tight prenup so he couldn’t divorce her, but Bunny said he’s been a frequent flier in the bar at the bowling alley and is a real hound dog.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep all that in mind when I question him.”
“Also, ask him if Cherry ever hired private investigators to look into the people she wrote about. She seemed to have found out a lot of secrets about the judges and the other contestants. Oh, and ask him who was going to be the subject of her next book.”
“Got it.” Wally opened the door leading from the PD to the garage. “See you at ten.”
It was exactly seven p.m. when Skye arrived at the Brown Bag banquet hall. People stood two deep all the way from the buffet tables to the entrance. Skye spotted her parents near the front and waved. May motioned for her to join them, but Skye shook her head. In Scumble River, cutting into a food line was a crime punishable by social death. May, one of the queen bees, might be able to get away with it, but Skye, a drone, knew she could not.
Instead she walked into the hall’s attached bar and ordered a Diet Coke with a slice of lime. The place was empty except for the owner, Jess Larson, who was sitting on a stool reading a book.
As he slid the glass in front of her, he said, “I hear you all had some excitement at the cooking contest. I told Dante I didn’t have a good vibe about having it here.”
“Yeah.” Skye took a long drink and sighed. “Why doesn’t anything ever go smoothly in Scumble River?”
“What would be the fun in that?” Jess was a relative newcomer to town, having bought the Brown Bag a couple of years ago from his cousin when she retired.
“You sound like some of my ADHD kids.”
“I probably was, but we moved around a lot, so the school never had a chance to stick a label on me.”
“Hey,” Skye said sharply. “I do not stick labels on kids. I identify them so they can get the help they need.”
“Whoa. Sorry.” He held up his hand. “See, it’s that poor impulse control coming out.”
“Right.” Sarcasm dripped from the word. “So, you hear much about the murder?”
“The usual.” Jess pushed a dish of snack mix toward Skye, who helped herself to a handful. “Since the victim’s from out of town, no one seems to know much.”
“Yeah.” Skye’s voice retained its sarcastic tone. “Laurel is a whole forty-five minutes from here. Might as well be a foreign country.”
Jess chuckled. “You sure you don’t want some rum in that Diet Coke? You sound less perky than usual.”
“Perky!” Skye glared at him. “I am never perky. Perky is for cheerleaders and Miss America.”
This time Jess raised both hands in surrender. “I meant … uh … not in good spirits.”
“Well, okay.” Skye examined the bar owner. He was only an inch or so taller than she was, with black eyes and brown hair. She didn’t know his age, but guessed he was nearing thirty. He seemed friendly enough, but didn’t socialize and rarely mentioned his past. She grinned. He needed a girlfriend. Who could she fix him up with?
“I don’t like that smile,” he said, his gaze wary.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Skye waited for a beat, then asked, “Do you ever take a night off?”
“I think you’re real cute and I like talking to you, but …” Jess backed away.
“One thing I’ve learned is never to mess with a cop’s girlfriend.”
“Not me, silly.” Skye giggled. “But I have some single friends.”
“No. I do not do blind dates or fix-ups.” Then, as if to distract her, he said, “Speaking of cops, the chief’s father has been in here a couple of times—though I almost didn’t recognize him this time, what with him having shaved his head and all.”
“Yeah, that was a surprise,” Skye bluffed.
“Is he moving to Scumble River or something?”
“I don’t think so.” Skye’s thoughts started to race. Or was he? Maybe that was why he was visiting. No, that was silly. The head of a multinational company would not live in Scumble River. “Do you remember the last time he was here?”
“He left just a few minutes ago.”
Damn! “He have anything interesting to say?”
“Nothing special.” Jess shrugged. “Mostly we talked about the stock market and baseball—I was trying to explain to him why the fans stick by the Cubs even though they continue to lose year after year. He had a hard time with that concept. Seemed to think winning is the only thing that matters.”
That was certainly consistent with the picture Wally had painted of his father. “Anything else?”
“I mentioned the murder, and he said it was a shame, because the bad publicity would hurt Grandma Sal’s business.”
Jess and Skye chatted for a few minutes more; then Skye paid for her drink and walked back to the banquet hall. The line had disappeared, and Skye stepped across the room to the buffet. She made her selections, then looked over the sea of faces, trying to find a place to sit.
She spotted an arm waving. Not surprisingly it was her mother. She waved back and made her way to the table. When she got near enough to see who else was sitting with May, a sense of déjàG vu washed over her once again. This whole weekend seemed to keep repeating itself.
Just like at Friday’s dinner, her parents had somehow managed to sit with the people Skye most wanted to avoid.
Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry Page 17
