Murder of the Cat's Meow: A Scumble River Mystery (14 page)

“What?” Wally retraced his steps and cocked his head toward the house.

“I could have sworn I heard a thump.” Skye moved over to the front window. “I think I see a shadow moving in the wall mirror.”

Wally joined her and cupped his face to the glass. He whispered, “I see it, too.” Then in a loud voice he said, “I don’t see anything. Obviously, O’Brien’s not home. We might as well leave.”

Wally took Skye’s arm and guided her toward the Caprice. Once they were inside, he started the motor, revved it a couple of times, then drove away.

“What’s the plan?” Skye knew there was no way Wally was giving up.

“I’m going to turn down the next street and circle back, which will give us a view of the house.” Wally winked. “With any luck my shouting and the engine
noise convinced O’Brien that we left, and while we wait to see what happens, I’ll call in the license number on that MINI Cooper. I have a feeling it isn’t his.”

A few seconds after Wally made his request, May’s voice crackled from the radio. “The plate is registered to Alexis Hightower.”

“Ten-nine,” Wally demanded.

“Repeat, plate is registered to Alexis Hightower.” May paused. “Do you copy?”

“Ten-sixty-nine. Boyd out.”

“What is Kyle doing with Alexis’s car?” Skye asked.

“Good question.” Wally reached for his cell. “Let’s see if its presence is enough to get a warrant to search O’Brien’s house.”

After assigning Quirk the responsibility of tracking down a judge, no easy task in a small county with as few of them as Stanley, Wally said to Skye, “I’m going to run you back to the PD. This could take several hours.”

Skye quirked her right brow. “I take it I’m not invited to the search party?”

“Too dangerous.” Wally punched a number into his cell. “Leery, it’s Wally Boyd.”

Skye couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation so she stared at the O’Brien house while Wally explained the situation to the Clay Center chief. She saw no signs of movement.

She tuned back in to what Wally was saying when she heard, “So if you could send an officer to sit on the place until my sergeant gets here, I’d be much obliged.” Wally listened, then laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, but I’m sure something can be arranged.” Still chuckling, Wally flipped his cell phone shut.

When he didn’t immediately fill her in, Skye asked, “What did Chief Leery want in exchange for his help?”

“To come to our wedding.” Wally’s voice held a hint of amusement.

“Why?” Skye didn’t see what was so funny about someone wanting an invitation.

“Leery’s wife is a Clay Center dispatcher, and it seems your mother has been talking to her about how wonderful our wedding is going to be. Now Mrs. Leery wants to attend.”

“Mom was talking about
our
wedding?” Skye wasn’t sure she had heard correctly.

May had always disapproved of Wally for her daughter on the grounds that he was too old, too divorced, and too not Catholic. She had also steadfastly refused to accept that Skye and Simon would never reunite, wed, and produce a houseful of grandkids.

“Yes.” Wally nodded, smiling broadly. “Isn’t that mighty interesting?”

“Hmm. I guess Mom is finally accepting the fact that I’m marrying you.” Skye felt a profound sense of relief. “What did you do to win her over?”

“Nothing.” Wally shrugged, but there was a gleam in his eye.

“Spill it.”

“Okay. One day, while things were slow at the station, I saw her making a baby afghan and I commented that I’d never seen her knitting before.”

“Yeah.” Skye shook her head. “It’s a relatively recent interest for Mom, but she’s approaching it the same way she does everything else.”

“Like a competitive sport?” Wally suggested.

“Exactly.”

“Anyway, we chatted a little about her new hobby; then since she seemed to be in a mellow mood, I may have mentioned that now that the annulment is in the final stages, and we can start planning the wedding, I was considering turning Catholic.”

“And?”

“Well, I almost told her that there had been an error on my birth certificate and I was really thirty-nine instead of forty-three, but instead I said that my granddad fathered a child when he was in his seventies.”

“That was a mistake.” Skye
tsk
ed. “Not only will Mom be feeding you pomegranates and pumpkin seeds, she’ll be picking out baby names.”

“Actually, she swears by oysters.” Wally waved at the Clay Center officer who had pulled his cruiser next to their car. “And she likes ‘Marie’ for a girl and ‘Ernest’ for a boy.”

“Speaking of children…” Skye bit her lip. She’d been putting off having this conversation, but it was time. “How do you feel about fatherhood?”

“As long as you’re their mother, I’d love to have a couple of kids.” Wally took her hand. “But if you’d rather not, I’m okay with that, too.”

“Then let’s keep our options open.” Skye leaned over and kissed him.

By the time Wally dropped Skye off at the PD to pick up her car, it was after seven. Having missed lunch and dinner, she was famished, and too tired to cook. The Feed Bag, Scumble River’s only sit-down restaurant, was closed, which left McDonald’s or the deli counter at Walter’s Supermarket. The drive-through window tipped the odds in favor of Mickey D’s, and after picking up supper, Skye drove home.

Clutching the white paper sack of fragrant fried goodies, she stepped across her threshold and nearly fell over Bingo. The black cat sat squarely in the middle of the small braided rug in front of the door and glared at her out of slitted green eyes. His body language conveyed quivering outrage at having been left to starve.

After taking care of Bingo’s need for food and a clean
litter box, Skye took her dinner into the sunroom and curled up on the white wicker love seat. As she ate, she read through her ghost-buster file.

Her plan was to give Mrs. Griggs another chance to prove she could behave herself when Wally and Skye got affectionate. However, if the apparition interfered with their love life one more time, Skye fully intended to banish the former owner’s spirit—even if that meant calling Father Burns in to perform an official exorcism.

Several hours later, Skye woke herself with a scream. She felt as if she was being smothered and had to fight her way to consciousness. She’d been having a nightmare in which human-size cats pursued her around the bowling alley carrying fishing poles from which stuffed mice dangled. Standing on the sidelines watching the chase were other humanoid felines, who were texting on their cell phones.

It took her a few seconds, but Skye finally realized that the cause of her breathing problem was Bingo. The feline was curled up on her chest with his tail over her mouth and nose. After removing him, she looked at her watch. It was nearly three in the morning.

Stretching, she got to her feet and rubbed the crick in her neck—the love seat was way too short to sleep on. As she passed through the kitchen on her way to bed, she checked her answering machine. The little red zero glowed steadily, which meant Wally hadn’t phoned.

She dug her cell out of her tote bag, but there were no messages on it, either. She knew that the search of Kyle O’Brien’s home would have taken several hours, and if the police had found the photographer hiding inside, the interrogation would also be a lengthy process. Still, she had hoped for an update on the situation.

As she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, Skye wondered what had been found at Kyle’s residence. More
important, how would he explain Alexis’s car being parked in front of his house?

Tuesday morning Skye was scheduled to attend the junior high’s Pupil Personnel Services meetings at eleven thirty. Homer had thrown a hissy fit when Skye had informed him she wouldn’t be able to talk to the girls who had been caught playing the Pass Out game until that afternoon.

All the principals that Skye worked for felt that their problems should take priority, and they jealously fought for her time. Since the girls weren’t in any imminent danger, and their parents were fully aware of the situation, Skye couldn’t justify missing her regular hours at the junior high.

She spent the time before the PPS meeting evaluating a sixth grader who had moved to Scumble River the week before. His mother had presented Skye with paperwork indicating that a case study was in progress. Although the boy had left his old school before the psychologist could complete the required testing and observation, the clock was still ticking toward the sixty-day deadline for the case study’s completion.

Finishing up with five minutes to spare, Skye sent the student back to his class, gathered up her appointment book and legal pad, and hurried to the PPS meeting. It was being held in the art room, which was free during the first thirty-minute lunch period but was used as a study hall for B lunch.

The purpose of PPS meetings was to discuss kids who were experiencing learning or behavioral problems. The committee was composed of the principal, the special ed teacher, the speech therapist, the school psychologist, and the nurse. In addition, any regular ed teacher with a student on the agenda was required to attend.

As the others trailed in, Skye studied the names of the three kids on today’s list. They’d have ten minutes per child. Unless, of course, there was an emergency add-on.

As was her habit, Neva Llewellyn, the junior high principal, arrived precisely on time. Skye often wondered if the woman waited just out of sight until the second hand clicked on the twelve.

Neva took her seat, looked around, and asked, “Is everyone here?”

Skye struggled to maintain an attentive expression and to keep a giggle from escaping. Did the principal really think a missing team member would speak up? Neva ran a tight ship, but even she couldn’t force her employees to respond when they weren’t physically present.

“Good.” Neva was a tall, lean woman in her forties who wore expensive suits and expected everyone to be as perfectly groomed and as good at their jobs as she was. “Let’s get to our first student.”

Before she could begin, a banshee-like whooping came from the hallway.

As the group turned toward the strident sound, a small red ball with a burning green wick sailed through the art room’s open transom.

Everyone stared as if mesmerized until Skye jumped to her feet and yelled, “Holy crap!”

From behind the door came a noise that might have been laughter, or a cat hacking up a hairball. A split second later a bright flash and a resounding boom echoed through the room.

S
kye stood in the middle of the art room and looked around. The others still sat, stunned. Luckily, the cherry bomb had landed near the door, which was in the back, and the women had been sitting at two long tables near the front, so no one appeared to be hurt. And with the exception of a small scattering of red paper and the lingering smell of the flash powder, there was no visible damage to the classroom.

After making sure that everyone was all right, Skye pulled Neva aside and told the principal that she had a good idea of the identity of the cherry bomber. She also revealed her strategy to apprehend him. Once Neva agreed to Skye’s plan, albeit a bit reluctantly, and said she’d call the student’s parents, Skye rushed from the room in pursuit of her quarry.

That distinctive asthmatic hyena laugh could belong to only one boy, so after briefly considering her options, Skye headed left. The art room was just a few feet from the cafeteria/gymnasium, and students on their way to lunch passed right in front of its door.

She entered the room at a trot, but once inside she slowed to scan the cavernous space. Rows of picnic-style
tables were set up on the gym’s floor, and nearly two hundred seventh and eighth graders were talking in strident adolescent voices. The sound was nearly as deafening as her brother’s band when they had played acid rock under the name Pink Elephant.

Skye and her target spotted each other at precisely the same moment. He swiveled his head in search of an exit. There were only three choices—through the kitchen where the lunch ladies would grab him; over the stage and into the PE teacher’s office, which was a dead end; or through the main entrance, where Skye stood waiting.

Shrugging, he remained seated, glaring at Skye as she walked toward him and ordered him to his feet. He waited several heartbeats before complying. Although Skye’s expression didn’t show it, she had been worried that he would refuse and the situation would escalate.

Even though the boy walked docilely down the hall beside her, Skye didn’t relax until they reached her office. The windowless room was painted road-stripe yellow and was only slightly larger than a refrigerator box or a port-a-potty. Crisp white curtains hung over a travel poster scene of the Rocky Mountains did little to lessen the claustrophobic feel of the space. Having originally been used to store cleaning supplies, the place gave off a faint, lingering smell of ammonia no matter what air freshener Skye tried.

Still, she was grateful for the private office. It was a blessing many school psychologists would give up their laptops and next raise to possess, especially in a situation such as this one. Dealing with a recalcitrant teenager was always better without an audience.