Murder of a Wedding Belle (19 page)

“Hi. I don’t know if you remember me.”
Shoot.
Lonny was a substitute who was called in when none of the regular dispatchers were available, and Skye had met him only once. “I’m the PD’s psych consultant. Could you buzz me through please?”

“Uh.” Lonny scrunched his face. “The thing is, I was told not to let anyone in.”

Skye pasted on her most reassuring smile. “I’m sure that doesn’t include me.”

“Well . . .” Lonny fingered his mostly nonexistent mustache. “I don’t know. They said no one.”

“They who?”

“Sp—I’m not supposed to say.”

“I understand.” Skye made eye contact. “How about you check with Chief Boyd, then?”

“He said he didn’t want to be disturbed. To refer anything that came up to the officer on duty.”

“Okay.” Skye needed to remember to ask Wally for a key so she could avoid the third degree by coming and going through the garage. “Then ask him.”

“She’s on her supper break.” Lonny shook his head. “I’m only supposed to call her if it’s an emergency.”

“Okay.” Skye dug through her tote, pulled out her wallet, found her ID card, and pressed it against the glass. “See, I work here.”

“Anyone could print up one of those.” Lonny’s tone was stubborn.

Taking a deep breath to calm down, since shouting would not get her what she wanted, she said, “Check on the chief’s desk. There’s a picture of him and me there that should convince you that, no matter what, he’d want you to let me in.”

It didn’t feel right to use her relationship with Wally to help Simon, but Skye reassured herself that she was really helping Bunny, which was a different story.

When the dispatcher returned, his tone was both apologetic and annoyed. “Why didn’t you just say you were Chief Boyd’s girlfriend?”

Skye didn’t answer. Even after five years of living back home, it was sometimes hard to remember that some Scumble Riverites thought a woman’s entire identity came from the man she was married to or dating.

As Lonny buzzed her in, she said to Simon, “I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I can.” She was positive she couldn’t talk the young man into letting Simon in, too.

“Thanks.” Simon nodded his understanding. “I’ll be right here.”

Skye took a few steps down a short hallway, stopping in front of the coffee/interrogation room at the end. The blinds were shut on the double windows, but she could hear voices behind the closed door.

“I’m going to ask you again: Where did you get the hundred-dollar bills you deposited in the bank today?”

Skye frowned; that wasn’t Wally speaking. And she was fairly certain it wasn’t any of the other Scumble River officers, either.

“Why are you asking me again?” Bunny’s tone was coy. “Do you really think I’ll give you a different answer than the one I’ve been giving you for the past hour? Or the one I gave Chief Boyd for the hour before you got here?”

“Ma’am,” the stranger answered, “you don’t seem to understand your situation. We can and will lock you up.”

“So?” Bunny didn’t sound the least bit intimidated. “Then I guess the fellows at the county jail and I will just have to have a little party.” Her usual soprano slipped down into a sultry alto range. “After all, the deputies are all good friends of mine.”

“Who said anything about the county jail?” The stranger’s voice was cool. “I’m talking about federal prison.”

Prison?
Skye quickly knocked on the door. She was uncertain about the best way to approach the situation, but she had to get in there before Bunny flirted her way onto a chain gang.

The door opened a crack, and Wally’s irritated gaze swept over Skye. He stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him, took Skye by the elbow, and steered her into the nearest cubicle.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. His posture was stiff and his shoulders tense. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Skye assured him. “But I heard you arrested Bunny. Why?”

“She’s not under arrest. We just have some questions for her.” Wally frowned. “How did you hear about it anyway? There was nothing over the radio, and we took her out the back door of the bowling alley.”

“The bartender saw you.” Skye was hoping to avoid mentioning Simon.

“The bartender called you?”

“Not exactly.” Skye tried to steer the conversation back to where she wanted it to be. “What are you questioning her about?”

“If he didn’t call you, who did the bartender call?” Wally refused to be sidetracked.

“Her son,” Skye hedged.

“Reid.” Wally’s expression grew darker. “You can say his name.”

“Sorry.” She was handling the situation badly but didn’t know what to do to make it better. “Yes, Simon.”

“And Reid called you?”

She nodded.

“Why?”

“The dispatcher wouldn’t let him back here, you weren’t answering your cell, and May wasn’t home.”

“So you came running to help him.” Wally’s voice was dangerously calm. “I should have guessed.”

“Not help Simon.” Despite her effort to keep it out, a sheepish note crept into Skye’s voice. “I came to help Bunny. She
is
a friend of mine, you know.”

Wally paused while considering what Skye had said; then he shrugged. “Maybe that’s true, or maybe that’s just what you’ve convinced yourself is true. But this makes me wonder if you still have feelings for Reid, and that’s why you won’t give me an answer to my proposal.”

Skye was silent, not altogether sure Wally wasn’t right. “Can we talk about this later?” She wasn’t ready to have this discussion. “You still haven’t told me why Bunny was brought in for questioning.”

“Are you asking as the psych consultant”—Wally crossed his arms—“or her friend?”

“It can’t be both?”

“No. One is sworn to keep confidentiality and the other isn’t.”

“In that case, the psych consultant.” Skye hoped she was telling the truth. “So what’s so hush-hush?”

“I’m not kidding about this being classified.” He sounded worried. “If you tell anyone, both of us could be in trouble with the feds.”

“The feds!” Skye squeaked. “What in blue blazes did she do?”

“Early this afternoon she deposited two thousand dollars’ worth of counterfeit bills in the bank.”

“Holy mackerel!”

Wally grunted his agreement.

“You don’t think she knew that they were counterfeit, do you?”

“Probably not.” Wally’s voice was low. “She’s too much of an airhead to pull off something like that.”

“She’s not an airhead.” Skye tried to lighten the mood. “She’s just reality impaired.”

Wally ignored Skye’s joke. “When the bank called me, I had no choice but to notify the Secret Service.”

“I thought the FBI was in charge of counterfeiting.” Skye was confused. “Isn’t the Secret Service the one that protects the president?”

“Yes, but they’re also responsible for national security, which is the heading counterfeiting falls under.” Wally ran his fingers through his hair. “In today’s climate, we’re just lucky Homeland Security isn’t involved.”

A flare of panic ran through Skye as she realized that Bunny might be in deeper trouble than she’d originally thought. “Is the Secret Service questioning her now?”

“Uh-huh.” Wally leaned against the desk. “I called the Chicago field office and they instructed me to bring her in on the QT. The last thing they want to get out is news of counterfeit money floating around.”

“Scumble River isn’t the best place to try to keep anything under wraps. Around here a secret is just something you tell one person at a time.”

“I explained that to the two special agents they sent, but they pointed out that only the bank president and I know, so it would be fairly simple to track down any leaks.”

“Well, I won’t mention it to anyone,” Skye assured him. “But once Bunny’s released, I can’t imagine her keeping it quiet.”

“
If
she’s released.”

“That bad?”

“She’s really pissing them off.” Wally’s mouth tightened. “And I haven’t been able to convince her that this isn’t something she can flutter her lashes and giggle her way out of.”

“Can’t you explain to the Secret Service agents that she doesn’t mean any harm? That Bunny’s one of a kind?”

“I tried. I told them that they broke the mold after they made her.” Wally shook his head. “But the senior guy said they should have arrested the artist and sued him for faulty merchandise.”

“Oh.” Skye sagged.

“They’ve been here since four, and they aren’t getting anywhere with her.”

“Maybe she really doesn’t know anything.”

“Could be,” Wally agreed. “But I have a hunch there’s some reason she’s afraid to tell what she does know.”

“Do you think the phony money could be tied in with Belle’s murder?” Skye hadn’t made the connection before.

“It’s possible. After all, two serious crimes, days apart, occurring in a town this size ...” Wally twitched his shoulders. “What are the odds of that?”

“True. And this wedding has brought in a lot of outsiders,” Skye reminded him.

“Exactly.” Wally straightened. “Bunny had better quit messing around and tell us what she knows.”

“Can you get the agents to let me talk to her?” Skye was pretty sure she could persuade Bunny to come clean. Whatever the redhead was afraid of, it probably had more to do with a scheme she didn’t want Simon to know about than any knowledge of the murder.

Something Blue

T
he Secret Service agents had reluctantly agreed to allow Skye, aka the Scumble River Police Department psychological consultant, to question Bunny. It had taken Wally half an hour to convince them, and it had taken Skye even longer to persuade the three men to step out of the room while she did so. If the PD had had a two-way mirror, they might have been less averse to the idea. But it didn’t and they weren’t.

Consequently, it was nearly six thirty when Skye walked into the coffee/interrogation room, a utilitarian space resembling the teacher’s lounge at the high school. A counter with a sink ran the length of the sidewall, a long table took up most of the center area, and a couple of vending machines occupied the rear.

Skye had had nothing to eat since breakfast, so her stomach was growling and her temples were pounding. She wasn’t sure if the headache was from hunger or stress—probably both. But she knew it was nothing a thick steak and a week away from Scumble River wouldn’t cure.

Bunny was seated and squinting into the small mirror of a gold compact. The contents of her handbag were dumped out on the table, and she was fluffing her bright red curls with a rattail comb.

Skye was surprised that Bunny had been allowed to keep her purse. Maybe the agents were trying to soften her up since she looked like a pushover, but, boy, were they barking up the wrong bimbo.

As soon as Bunny noticed Skye, she popped out of her chair and grabbed her in a hug, saying in one breath, “Skye, honey, what brings you here? Did you come to straighten out those silly men?”

Bunny was dressed in Lycra stirrup pants; the matching silver halter barely contained her surgically enhanced breasts. Over the outfit she wore a black leather jacket, unzipped to show off her bellybutton ring.

Skye didn’t even blink. Bunny had been a dancer in Las Vegas for twenty years, and some things, like her taste in clothing and her predilection for getting into trouble, would never change.

Not waiting for Skye to answer her first two questions, Bunny continued, “Do you want a soda?”

“No, thanks. I—”

“Well, I sure as hell need one. Do you have any money on you? Those assholes took my wallet.”

Skye dug a dollar out of her pocket and handed it over. As Bunny fed the bill into the vending machine’s slot, she appeared to have no idea how much trouble she was in.

After Bunny had had her first sip of sugar and caffeine and was settled back in her chair, Skye said, “So, where did you get the counterfeit money?”

“I don’t remember.” Bunny waved her hand, the long silver nails catching the light like tiny daggers. “Do you remember where you got every dollar in your wallet?”

Skye stared hard into the redhead’s big brown eyes. “Cut the crap.” Her expression was just too innocent to be real, and Skye was in no mood for Bunny’s usual coquettish behavior. “We’re not talking about a couple of bucks here. There is no way on God’s green earth you don’t remember where you got two thousand dollars.”

“You know ...” The older woman set down her soda can and toyed with the rhinestone bangles on her wrist. “Sometimes my mind wanders.”

“Really?” Skye raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, today it appears to have left you completely.”

Bunny blinked, then said with a fake catch in her voice, “Not everyone is as smart as you are, Skye.”

Skye crossed her arms. “Maybe not.” She wasn’t buying the poor little dumb Bunny routine. The redhead was silly and immature and impulsive, but she wasn’t stupid. “But you do understand that counterfeiting is a serious offense.”

“Yeah.” Bunny grimaced. “It’s a class C felony, and I can get up to twelve years in prison or be fined as much as two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“How in the heck do you know that?” Skye wondered whether the special agents had told her.

“Oh, I’m a walking storehouse of facts.” Bunny’s smile was lopsided. “It’s just that sometimes I can’t remember where I put the key to the storehouse door.”

“It’s time to find it.” Skye hid her grin; giggling at the redhead’s jokes would ruin the tough-guy image she was trying to project. “Because with your prior record, the judge wouldn’t be lenient.”

“Well.” Bunny snapped shut her compact. “If I were assured Sonny Boy would never, ever hear what I had to tell you, maybe my memory would improve.”

Skye smiled to herself. She knew it. “That might be arranged.” The fake money had something to do with some scam Bunny didn’t want Simon to know about. “But I can’t promise until I know what’s going on.”