Murder of a Stacked Librarian (25 page)

“These houses have to be going for more than a million each.” Skye looked around, then revised her estimate. “Maybe a million and a half.”

As they were chatting, the door to the trailer swung open and Hank Gaskin stepped out onto the metal stairs. He wore expensively tailored slacks and a cashmere sweater, and a Rolex glinted on his wrist.

Hank smiled and said, “Come on in.” Waving at them, he continued. “What kind of house are you interested in? We have several plans available that you can customize, or we can work from your architect’s diagrams. Whichever way makes you feel most at home.”

Skye slid a glance at Wally. Considering he was in uniform and they had arrived in a squad car, did Hank really think they were potential buyers? How much did the cops in Lawnton make?

Wally winked at her, then said, “I’m Chief Boyd from the Scumble River Police Department, and this is our psychological consultant, Ms. Denison. We’re here to talk to Neil Osborn. Is he inside?”

“No.” Hank jerked his thumb to the right. “He’s at the playground we’re putting in. I handle the land acquisition and sales end of things and Neil’s the construction guy.”

“Okay.” Wally nodded his thanks, then commented, “I guess it’s a good thing the winter’s been so mild. I’m a little surprised you’re still able to work this late in the year.”

“We’ve been lucky. The ground’s not even frozen yet.” Hank shuffled from foot to foot, then said over his shoulder as he scooted back inside, “Neil’s over that way. Just follow the path through those trees.”

“Got it.” Wally took Skye’s arm and said in a low voice, “I wonder why Gaskin was so anxious to get rid of us.” He chuckled and guided her over a root. “I guess because he figured out we weren’t buyers.”

“A lot of people are nervous around police officers or psychologists. Or both.”

Skye and Wally emerged onto a large expanse of lush green grass. In the center, Neil Osborn was directing a group of workers who were assembling a huge complex of slides, swings, climbing nets, and a gigantic artificial oak tree with two decks built into its fake branches.

Skye poked Wally and whispered in his ear, “Shouldn’t an ecofriendly community have real trees, not plastic or concrete ones?”

“One would think.” Wally nodded, then raised his voice and called out, “Mr. Osborn.”

Neil looked toward them, frowned, and said something to one of his men. His expression smoothing out as he sauntered over to where Wally and Skye stood, he asked in a pleasant tone, “What are you doing here, Chief Boyd? Have you found out who killed Yvonne?”

Wally ignored Neil’s question and herded him out of earshot of the workers. “Did you really think you could get away with lying to us?”

“What are you talking about?” Neil’s thick black brows drew together.

“You told us that you and your ex-wife had an amicable divorce, but that wasn’t true.” Wally’s eyes were icy. “Was it?”

“I stand by my statement.” Neil crossed his arms and attempted to stare down Wally. “Yvonne and I got along just fine.”

“That’s not what her new boyfriend told us.”

“Of course he’d say that,” Neil blustered. “Yvonne probably told him we didn’t get along so he wouldn’t be jealous. Or maybe he wants to implicate me in her murder, so you don’t look too hard at him.”

“He has a reliable witness who puts him an hour away from the scene at the time of her death.” Wally leaned against a stack of two-by-fours. “And every one of Yvonne’s friends and colleagues whom we’ve spoken with corroborates his statement about your relationship with your ex-wife while vehemently disagreeing with yours.” Wally put his hands in his pockets. “So why did you lie to us?”

“I . . . I . . . I wasn’t lying, exactly.” Neil’s shoulders slumped, and he looked every year of his age. “But maybe I was telling you how I wish it had been rather than how it ended up being.” He exhaled noisily. “At one time, back when we were young, I really loved Yvonne, and I never wanted things to end up the way they did.”

“Killing her, you mean?” Skye asked in a gentle voice. “Maybe it was an accident. Were you following her too closely and lost control of your car?”

“No!” Neil yelped. “I didn’t. I meant the divorce and the fighting.”

“But you can see how it looks,” Skye continued, her tone understanding. “An ex-wife whom you don’t get along with is murdered and you lie to the police. That isn’t the behavior of an innocent man.”

“Plus you don’t have an alibi,” Wally pointed out.

“But I do,” Neil protested. “I was home with my wife.” He looked at Skye. “Don’t you remember me telling you that?”

“Sorry.” Skye shook her head. “We have to assume a wife will lie for her husband. Either because of love or financial security.”

“My partner came over about seven. You can ask him.”

“The critical time is between four forty-five and five fifty-five.” Skye shrugged. “So a witness to your presence at seven is too late. At most, it’s an hour’s drive from Scumble River to Laurel.”

“Even though Yvonne and I fought, I didn’t hate her.” Neil’s voice cracked. “Don’t you think you have to really hate someone to kill them?”

“There are a lot of motives for murder.” Skye rubbed her hands, trying to warm them up. “Love, hate, revenge, money, jealousy.”

“None of those apply to me.” Neil straightened and his expression hardened. “Now, arrest me, or I have to get back to work.”

They asked Neil several more questions, but he didn’t crack, and without enough evidence to charge him, they had to let him go.

“Son of a buck!” Wally cursed as he and Skye walked back to the squad car. She was trying to think of something comforting to say when Wally’s phone rang.

He answered it, listened briefly, then hung up and said to Skye, “That was Martinez. Dante’s alibi checks out.”

“I guess that’s good news,” Skye said as she examined her suede ankle boots.
Yuck!
They had green marks on the heels and toes. She must have gotten grass stains on them when she walked on the playground.

“I suppose.” Wally turned the key and started the engine.

While she pondered whether the stains would come off her new shoes, a random thought popped into Skye’s head. “Hey, I never asked if you searched Yvonne’s house for clues. I mean, since she wasn’t killed there, did you even think it would be a good use of your time?”

“We searched it the day we learned she was murdered, but didn’t find anything helpful.” Wally steered the squad car toward the highway. “What made you ask about that now?”

“I was thinking about the file she left for Judy on the library computer. Maybe she had something similar on her home PC.”

“Hmm.” Wally’s expression was thoughtful. “We didn’t find a computer at her house. I’ll have to ask Phoebe if her mother owned one.” He narrowed his eyes. “I also need to find out when the vic’s wake and funeral are being held. They released the body this morning.”

“Poor Phoebe. Since Yvonne didn’t have any relatives, I hope Neil helps his daughter with the arrangements.”

“I’m sure he will, if for no other reason than because it would look bad if he didn’t.” Wally glanced at Skye, then said, “We need to talk to Osborn’s wife ASAP. It’ll be faster if we go straight to Laurel from here to speak to her. Are you okay with that?”

She checked her watch. It was only eleven thirty. “Sure.” They didn’t have to be at the church for the rehearsal until five.

“Great.” Wally patted her leg. “Let’s go to a drive-thru and eat on the way to Osborn’s house.”

“Anything but McDonald’s.” Skye sighed. So much for healthy eating. “Since Mickey D’s is the only fast food in town, sometimes it feels like I’m turning into a Chicken McNugget.”

CHAPTER 22

Much Overdue
About Nothing

K
erry Osborn wasn’t what Skye had been expecting. For some reason, she had pictured Neil’s new wife as extremely young, with a centerfold body and a vacuously gorgeous face. The woman who answered the doorbell was none of the above. Instead, she appeared to be somewhere in her mid-to late thirties with an average figure and a mousy brown ponytail. In fact, Kerry looked a lot more like the media’s stereotype of a librarian than Yvonne had.

While these thoughts were zipping through Skye’s mind, Wally stepped forward, extended his hand, and said, “Mrs. Osborn, I’m Chief Boyd, and this is the police psych consultant, Ms. Denison. May we come in and speak with you for a few minutes?”

“Sure. Come on in. Excuse the mess.” Kerry tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. “Is this about poor Yvonne?”

“I’m afraid it is.” Wally stepped inside. “Last time we were here, you were ill so we didn’t get a chance to talk to you.”

“Neil told me.” Kerry led them into the kitchen. “The baby is down for his nap, so I’m trying to get the prep work for dinner out of the way.” She waved Wally and Skye to seats at the counter. “Neil’s usually starving when he gets home, and I like to have the meal ready to hit the table as soon as he walks in.”

“So you’re feeling better?” Skye asked, climbing onto the stool.

“Thank goodness, yes. And thank goodness I was sick during winter break, not when school was in session. I’m a kindergarten teacher here in Laurel and having a sub for a week is a nightmare.” Kerry picked up a paring knife and resumed mincing onions. “Luckily, Neil never came down with it, so he could take care of our son.”

“That is fortunate. Speaking of your husband,” Wally said in a deceptively casual tone, “Mr. Osborn told us that he had to run an errand on Christmas Eve, so he was gone from about four o’clock until nearly six.”

“He did?” Kerry frowned. “He must be confusing that with a couple of nights before, because after we got home from church Christmas Eve, we never left the house.”

Wally shot Skye a quick glance, then twitched his shoulders. She figured he was indicating that he’d struck out with his lie. She squeezed Wally’s knee, asking for permission to take over.

When he nodded slightly, Skye said, “How odd that Neil misremembered.”

“I think with the holidays, then me getting the flu, Neil is a little discombobulated.” Kerry put the chopped onions into a Baggie and started slicing tomatoes. “He even brought home the wrong file the other day. That’s why he had to go out Thursday night. He was so upset when he discovered that he didn’t have what he needed and he had to run all the way back to Naperville.”

“What a bother.” Skye rested her elbows on the counter. “I thought most records were computerized nowadays.” She smiled wryly. “At least that’s what the kids always tell me.”

“Neil’s old-school.” Kerry finished the tomatoes, went to the refrigerator, took out a bunch of carrots, and started shredding them. “He and his partner like to work from hard copies.”

“Is there anyone, besides you, who can confirm that Neil was home from four forty-five until six on Sunday evening?” Skye leaned forward with an encouraging look. “Maybe a neighbor?”

“No. Not that I can think of. Phoebe was supposed to be here, but you know about that.” Kerry slowly put down the grater and frowned. “Surely you aren’t thinking that Neil might have killed Yvonne?”

“We’re trying to rule him out,” Wally assured her, then added, “Just to tie up any loose ends. We have to look into the victim’s ex-husband; otherwise when we find the murderer, his or her lawyer will say we didn’t investigate all the possible leads.”

“But . . .” Tears welled up in Kerry’s hazel eyes. “He would never hurt the mother of his child.” She swiped at the moisture on her cheeks. “Sure, he and Yvonne had their differences . . .” She trailed off. “But there was never anything violent between them.”

“It’s hard to imagine someone we love doing anything really evil,” Skye sympathized.

“Shoot!” Kerry smacked the cutting board with her palm. “If only Hank had been on time, he could have seen that Neil was here.”

“Your husband’s partner was supposed to be at your house earlier than he was?” Skye asked.

“Uh-huh.” Kerry nodded. “But he and his wife had some kind of tiff, and he ended up just dropping Phoebe’s and Neil Junior’s gifts off and leaving. Which is a shame since he lives in Chicago and that’s a long round-trip for nothing. I think maybe Bobbie Sue might have kicked him in the shins, because he was limping pretty badly. She has a temper and Hank was in a real weird mood. He was sort of both excited and upset. Like one of those manic-depressive people.”

“It is a shame he wasn’t on time,” Skye commiserated. “Is there anyone else?”

“No . . .” Kerry shook her head, paused, then cried out, “Wait a minute! I just thought of something. Since this is Neil Junior’s first Christmas, we recorded the whole evening. I started the camera at four thirty and didn’t shut it off until the baby fell asleep after Hank left at quarter after seven.”

She ran over to the built-in desk, grabbed a laptop, and placed it in front of Skye and Wally. After powering it up, she clicked on an icon and fast-forwarded until the monitor was filled with Neil sitting on the floor with a ten-month-old that looked just like him.

A huge flat-screen television was on in the background, and Kerry tapped its image on the computer monitor. A meteorologist was reporting Santa Claus’s progress. And in the bottom right corner, 5:20 P.M. glowed in red.

There was no way that Neil could have forced his ex-wife off the bridge at four forty-five and been home in thirty-five minutes. Also, even if he left his house in the next second, he couldn’t have made it to Scumble River before six o’clock. Unless the recording had been tampered with, Neil Osborn had an ironclad alibi.

• • •

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Wally thumped the steering wheel. He’d been mute since leaving Kerry and Neil Osborn’s house. “If that home movie is legitimate, our last suspect just bit the dust.”

“Maybe Phoebe will have remembered something.” Skye tried to keep the discouragement out of her voice. “She’s had a few days to think things over.” They were on their way to talk to Yvonne’s daughter.

Wally grunted.

“It could happen,” Skye insisted, sneaking a look at her watch. It was nearly two. The rehearsal was in four hours, and the wedding was the next day. They were running out of time. This might be a case they didn’t solve. At least not until they got back from their honeymoon, and by then the trail would be stone-cold.