Murder of a Stacked Librarian (17 page)

“No.” Skye laughed weakly. “Certainly not.” She added quickly, “I’ve just never seen an animal like it before. What breed is she?”

“Hell if I know.” Earl held the small canine up and examined it. “Looks like some kinda mix of a bunch a those itty-bitty dogs that those rich women on TV carry around in their pocketbooks.”

“True.” Skye nodded. The pup did resemble a spoiled rich girl’s purse dog.

“Alls I can say is accordin’ to that biddy over to the south a me, this here dog belongs to her daughter and costs a lot of moolah and she’s gonna have a shit fit if she finds out I have it.” He twitched his bony shoulders. “Glenda said we could get rid of it by havin’ it stuffed and givin’ it to you for a weddin’ present. Sort of a conversation starter.”

“No!” Skye squealed at the thought of the cute little puppy being mummified. “A wedding gift should never be something prepared by a taxidermist.”

“Then what should I do with it?”

“Give Sugar Plum back to her owner,” Skye advised, glancing at her watch. She had to leave for the police station in fifteen minutes.

“I tried,” he griped, hitching up his neon orange sweatpants. “But no one’s to home, and when I leave the mutt on the step, she jus’ runs on back to my place like one a those boomerangs.”

“Hmm.” Skye considered the problem. “I guess you really can’t teach an old dog—”

Earl interrupted her, “New math.”

“Right.” Skye rolled her eyes. When would she learn not to use adages around Earl?

“Anyway, it’s strange that she keeps returning to your house.” Skye leaned on the jamb. “Are you feeding her?”

“Nope. She’s in love with Blue.” Earl grinned. “Don’t you remember? I told you t’other day on the phone that he’s a lot like his daddy—a real good f—”

“Stop,” Skye ordered, raising her hand like a traffic cop. “So Juliet here can’t get enough of your hound dog Romeo.” Skye thought fast. “Here’s what I suggest you do. Call your neighbor and leave her a message that you have her daughter’s pet and will return Sugar Plum as soon as you hear from her. Keep the little hussy away from Blue until her owner picks her up. Under no circumstances allow them to get romantic.” She stared at Earl. “Is that clear?”

“By romantic you mean humpin’, right?” Earl patted his crotch. “Like me an’ Glenda, but without the beer and fried pork rinds?”

“Right.” Skye closed her eyes and wondered what kind of mental scrub brush she’d need to get that image out of her mind. “No conjugal visits whatsoever.”

“Okay.” Earl nodded slowly, then repeated Skye’s instructions. “Call Miz Osborn, leave a message, keep the dogs apart.”

“Exactly. Call, leave a
polite
message, and keep Sugar Plum in the house and Blue in his pen.” In Earl’s case, as with many of the students she worked with, Skye found it a good idea to repeat the directions several times and be ultraclear. “I’m sorry to rush you, but—” She started to close the door and stopped, interrupting herself. “Did you say Osborn?” When Earl nodded, Skye spelled out, “Yvonne Osborn, the librarian, was your neighbor?”

“Yeah.” Earl made a face. “For the last six months of hell.”

“Why didn’t I realize she lived by you?” Skye muttered. “I’m an idiot.”

“Uh-uh, Miz Skye.” Earl patted her arm. “Youse the smartest woman I know.”

“Thank you, Earl.” She felt like smacking herself upside the head. She and Wally had figured out that Yvonne was on her way to Laurel from her house when her car went off the bridge, and Skye knew that the bridge marked the entrance to Doozier territory. After all, Cattail Path was the next intersection. “That’s sweet of you to say, but in this case, I think my brain might have blown a circuit.”

“Why, Miz Skye?” Earl asked, his high, domed forehead wrinkling in concern. “I don’t see nothin’ oozin’ out your ears.”

“Because last Sunday Yvonne Osborn was killed when her car was forced into the river, and I didn’t realize she was the neighbor you were talking about,” Skye explained.

“She’s dead?” Earl squealed. “I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, Miz Skye.” He backed away, a wild look in his muddy brown eyes.

“That’s not what I meant, Earl,” Skye assured him, then paused.

Could he have been behind the wheel of the Escalade that shoved Yvonne’s car into the river? The Dooziers didn’t own that kind of vehicle, but he might have “borrowed” it, and the librarian had been giving him a hard time about his hound. No. Skye mentally shook her head. If Earl had killed Yvonne, he was too wily to complain to Skye and admit he had possession of the murdered woman’s dog. He might be one fruitcake short of Christmas, but he wasn’t the candied cherry that got baked into the dessert. His survival instinct was too sharp to leap into that oven.

“Youse know me.” Earl continued backing away, then darted forward and shoved the dog through the door’s narrow opening and into Skye’s arms. “Iffen I offed her, I’d a shot her, and you can check my guns. They ain’t been fired in weeks.”

“Wait,” Skye called as Earl hurried down the porch steps. “Don’t you dare leave this animal with me. Take her back right now.”

“No!” Earl shrieked, hopping onto a riding lawn mower with red sled-shaped plywood pieces duct taped to both sides. “I can’t have no dead woman’s dog. Youse knows the law won’t understand.”

“Who is Yvonne’s other neighbor?” Skye unhooked the chain and ran outside. “Who’s the guy that you said was upset with her?”

“King Housley,” Earl yelled, clapping a Santa hat over his trucker cap and gathering the reins of his pseudosleigh.

He’d taken half a dozen stuffed deer heads and mounted them on poles, then attached the poles to the front of the mower. The whole shebang was supposed to resemble a team of reindeer, but it looked more like a
Nightmare Before Christmas
than the
Night Before Christmas
.

Before Skye could react, Earl stomped on the wannabe sled’s accelerator and sped down her driveway, the lawn mower’s souped-up engine backfiring until Santa, aka Earl, was clear out of sight.

King was the name of the guy she’d overheard with his buddies in front of church on Christmas morning. Had Wally spoken to the three maintenance men? She had to remember to ask him about that.

Shivering, Skye headed toward her car. The weather this winter had been unseasonably mild for Illinois—forties during the day and high twenties at night—but it was still chilly. They’d been fortunate to avoid frigid temps and huge snowstorms so far, and Skye could only hope that her luck would hold out. She prayed there wouldn’t be a blizzard during her wedding. She certainly didn’t want any of her guests skidding off the road. She also needed the day after to be clear. Whatever their honeymoon destination turned out to be, she knew they’d have to fly to get anywhere balmy.

Skye instinctively cuddled the small animal to her chest, and Sugar Plum licked her face and whimpered. The pup’s sweet expression seemed to be begging Skye to find out who had killed her mistress’s mother. Or maybe the pooch just wanted a doggy treat. Sadly, she didn’t have any tidbits, and it wasn’t looking too good for solving the crime either.

After depositing Sugar Plum in the Bel Air and promising her she’d be out in a minute, Skye ran back inside the house to shut off the lights, get her purse, and lock up. She’d learned her lesson a while back when she’d rescued another victim’s pet. Bingo did not play well with others, and the last thing she needed was a ticked-off feline alone with vital wedding bits and pieces lying everywhere, just ready to be torn apart.

On the previous occasion, she’d lost her favorite pair of Cole Haan black pumps to Bingo’s teeth and claws. She had no idea what he’d target this time, but she wasn’t taking any chances with her beautiful peep-toe sling-back wedding shoes.

Once Skye reached the police station, she tried to hurry past her mother, who was working the dispatcher’s desk, but May rushed to the counter and yelled, “What on God’s green earth is that?”

“Yvonne Osborn’s daughter’s dog,” Skye called over her shoulder as she used her key to open the inner door. “I’m late. I’ll explain later.”

It took a while to tell Wally about her Doozier encounter, because as she described the visit, his fits of laughter kept interrupting her.

He finally sobered up enough to ask, “So you’re sure Earl had nothing to do with the murder? He was mad at Yvonne and he wouldn’t be above stealing a car to run her off the bridge.”

“I’m not a hundred percent,” she said, idly scratching the little dog’s ears, “but he’d be on the bottom of my suspect list.”

“Yeah, on a scale of one to ten, annoying him about a dog is probably a one or two.” Wally reached into his drawer and came out with a package of beef jerky. He peeled the cellophane wrapper off and offered the stick to Sugar Plum. “And if he were going to kill her, he’d shoot her and bury her where we’d never find the body.”

“On the other hand, those maintenance men I overheard at church had a grudge against Yvonne and they could steal a car just as easily as Earl could.” Skye fetched a coffee cup, filled it with water from the carafe on Wally’s desk, and put it down for the tiny pooch. When she resumed her seat, she asked, “Did you talk to any of them?”

“Quirk interviewed the trio right after you told me about their conversation.” Wally pulled a folder from a pile and flipped through the pages inside. “It’s interesting that all three men are collecting disability from the Scumble River Public Works Department.”

“What happened?” Skye asked, watching Sugar Plum as she walked around the room’s perimeter sniffing the corners. Skye hoped female dogs didn’t mark their territory.

“Let’s see.” Wally paused to read the report, then said, “According to Quirk, they were hurt when a dump truck that Kenneth—aka King—Housley was driving went off the road. The other two men were standing on the shoulder and he sideswiped them.”

“Isn’t that an odd coincidence?” Skye murmured almost to herself, then looked up and asked, “Are we going to reinterview them?”

“Yep.” Wally nodded. “Tonight we’ll talk to Chip Nicolet; tomorrow we’ll requestion Neil Osborn and the three injured amigos.”

“Remember, I won’t be free until the afternoon,” Skye reminded him. “And our bachelor/bachelorette party starts at seven p.m. sharp.” Because several of their attendants and friends were coming into Scumble River from out of town, the parties were being held closer to the wedding date than Skye would have preferred.

“Right.” Wally ran a hand through his hair. “How about if I speak to Artie and Dutch and save the neighbor and the ex for you?”

“That sounds like a good division of labor,” Skye agreed. “King’s definitely the most likely suspect. Yvonne was allegedly spying on him, and he sounded mad enough about it to strangle her.”

“If you can meet me here at two tomorrow afternoon, we should be able to get it all in.” Wally made a note on his calendar.

“That should be doable.” Skye pointed at the cute canine sleeping at her feet. “Now, what do we do about Sugar Plum?”

“Turn her over to her owner.” Wally pulled the phone toward him and dialed. A few beats later, he said, “Phoebe? Chief Boyd here. Someone has turned in your pet. Can you pick her up?” He listened for a second, then said, “Good. She’ll be with the dispatcher. I have to warn you, May’s not an animal lover, so I’d get here sooner rather than later if I were you.”

Skye stifled a giggle at the look on her mother’s face when Wally handed her Sugar Plum and ordered her to look after the pooch until Phoebe Osborn showed up. May held the dog at arm’s length before setting the animal on a chair and commanding the dog to stay put.

May glared at Wally before silently returning to her computer. Skye was convinced her mother was plotting her revenge as she banged away on the keyboard.

As Skye and Wally drove the five miles to Chip’s fitness center, she said to him, “Earlier, you mentioned wanting to catch Neil Osborn on the job when we speak to him tomorrow. Is his office in Laurel?”

“No. Naperville.” Wally pulled the squad car into the Guns and Poses parking lot. “But the development he’s working on is in Lawnton.”

“And that’s where we’ll find him?” Skye asked, pushing open the heavy glass door to the gym. “At the work site, not in his headquarters?”

“That’s what his secretary told me when I talked to her this afternoon.” Wally followed Skye into the health club’s empty reception area. “Turns out that, like me, Osborn’s secretary is originally from Texas, so we kind of hit it off.”

“Oh, really?” Skye arched a brow before smiling to indicate she was okay with him using his down-home charm on the woman to gather information.

“Anyway,” Wally went on, “she’s not real fond of her boss. In fact, she’s looking for another job because she says Osborn can’t keep his hands to himself and has quite a temper when someone stands up to him or prevents him from getting what he wants.”

“Hmm.” Skye examined the vacant lobby and uninhabited front desk. “That sure is a different image than the one he presented to us.”

“Yes, it is.” Wally walked toward a hallway leading into the rest of the facility. “From the other calls I made, it seems Osborn put on quite an act for us. All of the vic’s friends say that Yvonne and her ex not only didn’t get along, they actually disagreed on everything from politics to religion to child rearing.”

“Wow!” Skye trailed Wally down the passageway. “He certainly sold us a bill of goods.” She shook her head. “That I believed him really makes me question my instincts as a psychologist.”

“The term sociopath was used by a couple of Yvonne’s previous colleagues, the ones who worked with her when she was going through the divorce. Of course, they only knew him from Yvonne’s perspective, so their opinions are biased.” Wally stepped into the main workout room and scanned the area. “Looks like everyone’s gone for the night.”

“Well, it is five minutes before the place closes,” Skye commented.

“True.” Wally sighed. “I was hoping to get here earlier, but . . .”

He trailed off, and Skye bit her lip. She knew he was too nice to say that it was her fault their plan had gotten off schedule because she’d been late and saddled with Yvonne’s dog.