Murder of the Cat's Meow: A Scumble River Mystery (20 page)

A
few minutes later, when Skye arrived home, she was still thinking about mini golf and murder, but Bingo’s demands for supper, fresh water, and a clean litter box pushed the notion to the back of her mind. When the cat was taken care of and Wally still hadn’t arrived, Skye made a quick call to her Grandma Denison to tell her that a date had finally been set for the wedding.

By the time she finished talking to her grandmother and went back outside, Wally was pulling up to the front walkway. He stopped the squad car, leaned across, and opened the passenger door.

As Skye slid into the seat, she demanded, “So tell me what you found out about Fawn and her husband.”

“As we thought, the Laurel police are well aware of those two.” Wally put the Caprice in gear. “They had suspected for quite a while that Fawn’s husband was abusing her, but they could never get any evidence. Although Fawn was frequently seen around town with cuts and bruises, she always claimed that she was just clumsy.”

“Which is fairly typical for a battered woman,” Skye commented, buckling her seat belt. “As I understand it,
they’re either too ashamed or too terrified to admit that they’re being assaulted.”

Wally turned out of the driveway and onto the blacktop. “The problem is that even though the police are able to press charges when the victim won’t, they have to have more than just a gut feeling in order to get a case to stick.” He wrinkled his forehead in disgust. “And no one ever saw Irving raise a hand to his wife.”

“Isn’t that how it always is?” Skye said. She was having trouble concentrating on the conversation because her dad playing mini golf had popped back into her brain. “It’s the same way when I file a report with Children and Family Services. There’s not much DCFS can do if the child denies the abuse. And, naturally, there are never any witnesses willing to come forward.”

“Of course.” Wally took Skye’s hand. “Very few people are willing to put themselves at risk to try to help someone else.” He kissed her palm, then turned his attention back to the deserted country road. “The fact that you always do is one of the things I love the most.” He grinned. “Well, that and everything else.”

“Ah.” Skye traced a finger down Wally’s cheek. “You are so sweet.”

“Guys do not want to be thought of as sweet.” Wally made a face.

“Why?” Skye frowned, remembering that Simon had also objected to that description. She’d never understood why he hated it. “It’s a compliment,” she assured Wally. “Women love sweet men.”

“No, they don’t.” Wally shook his head. “They say they do, but if they’re telling the truth, why do they always go for the guys they think are hot instead of the ones who treat them well?”

“Unlike men?” Skye cocked an eyebrow. “I believe the expression ‘trophy wife’ was in existence long before the term ‘toy boy’ was coined.”

“All that proves is that both genders want someone sexy rather than nice.” Wally eased up on the accelerator as he expertly guided the squad car through a series of sharp curves. “Which is why
sweet
is not how I want you to think of me.”

“Well, you’re definitely hot.” Skye licked her lips suggestively, then winked. “Believe me, you have no worries on that front.” She leaned back, sighing contentedly. “And in only nine months you’re finally going to be my husband.”

“Or we could fly to Vegas the day after school gets out for the summer. Then we’d only have to wait ten weeks rather than nine months.”

“My mother would kill us both.” Skye cringed. “After Vince and Loretta eloped, Mom made me swear on a stack of her favorite cookbooks that I’d have a big wedding.” Skye crossed her arms. “And I made her promise that she wouldn’t turn it into a three-ring circus, like my cousin Riley’s over-the-top platinum spectacle.”

“Thank God!” Wally shuddered. “That extravaganza was plain ridiculous.”

“And that was
before
the body turned up.” Skye shook off that awful memory, and getting back to the matter at hand, asked, “What did the Laurel chief say about Mr. Irving’s disappearance?”

“Well, here’s the deal.” Wally’s ears turned red, which told Skye he didn’t approve of his fellow chief’s actions. “Since Irving was a pain in the as—uh—butt, no one is too concerned that he’s not around anymore.” Wally twitched his shoulders. “Fawn reported him missing, the police filled out all the paperwork and put him in the system, but no one is actively looking for him.”

“How about his employer?” Skye asked, then lost her train of thought when an image of a demented killer running around a miniature golf course distracted her.

“Irving didn’t have a job.”

“Oh.” What was her subconscious trying to tell her about the murder? Since she had no idea, she tried to concentrate on the topic they were currently discussing. “What were the circumstances of his unemployment?”

“Irving had worked on an IDOT road crew.” Wally tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he turned down a rutted gravel road. “Supposedly, he hurt his back when he slipped on some ice last winter. But the Laurel police say he was just bone-idle.” Wally pressed his lips together in disapproval, then added, “Either way, Irving’s been on disability for the past year or so.”

“How about his parents or siblings?” Skye found it hard to believe a man could vanish and no one cared. Even one who seemed as thoroughly disliked as Mr. Irving. “Did he and Fawn have any children?”

“No kids.” Wally guided the squad car around a series of potholes. “And when the police talked to Irving’s parents and sister they essentially said, ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish.’”

“Ouch.” Skye shook her head. “Who was this guy, Attila the Hun?”

“Yep.” Wally grimaced. “Or maybe his meaner younger brother.”

“Again, ouch.” Skye wondered about the man’s backstory. In her experience as a psychologist, she had found that few people were born evil. Generally, something in their history pushed them in that direction. Still, that was no excuse if Mr. Irving had been abusing his wife.

For the next few miles the only sound in the squad car was the crackle of the police radio. Eventually, after several minutes of deep breathing, Skye was able to push her obsessive thoughts about miniature golf to the back of her mind. Maybe if she ignored it, the answer would materialize—sort of like when you stopped watching the toaster and the Pop-Tarts finally came up.

Entirely focused for the first time since Wally had
picked her up, Skye said, “You know what I keep forgetting to ask you?” Wally shook his head, and she continued, “Has Alexis’s body been released? Has the funeral been scheduled? Does her family live in the area?”

“No, no, and we haven’t found her next of kin yet.” Wally turned down a dirt road, this one even more rutted than the last. “Both of the vic’s parents are dead and she was an only child.”

“So who
is
her next of kin?” Skye asked. “Did her folks have siblings? Doesn’t she have uncles, aunts, cousins?” Skye’s extended family was so enormous, it was hard for her to imagine anyone not having a lot of relatives—even if they didn’t live close by.

“Each parent had one sibling, but the mother’s sister died several years ago, and Alexis didn’t keep in touch with her father’s brother, so we’re having some trouble tracking him down.”

“I guess that means there’s not much of a chance that a family member killed her?” Skye asked, still hoping for a better suspect than Elijah.

“Probably not.” Wally swung the Caprice into a long tree-lined lane. “According to the vic’s neighbor and self-proclaimed best friend, Alexis has had no contact with any relatives for as long as the BFF knew her. And the last address we found for the uncle was New Zealand. He’s some kind of merchant seaman.”

“How about Alexis’s bestie?” Skye asked. “Maybe she killed her.”

“The neighbor has an ironclad alibi.” Wally chuckled. “She spent the night in jail on an indecent exposure charge. Turns out she got a little drunk at some party and mooned the mayor of Clay Center.”

“Shoot.” Skye tilted her head. “If she has to have an alibi, the least she could have done was flash Scumble River’s head honcho.” She snickered. “I’d pay good money to see Uncle Dante’s face if that happened.”

Wally chuckled as he stopped the squad car on a gravel-covered rectangle to the side of the farmhouse. The area was illuminated by a halogen pole lamp—the kind that came on at dusk and turned off at sunrise—and it was clear to Skye that it had been a long time since any of the buildings had seen a paintbrush. Apparently, Mr. Irving hadn’t spent his time off work keeping up his property.

Wally got out of the cruiser and walked around to open Skye’s door. As she was exiting the Caprice, Fawn Irving emerged from the barn. She was carrying a carton of canning jars and didn’t notice her visitors until she was nearly on top of them. Then her hands flew up and the box crashed to the ground.

Recoiling at the clattering of breaking glass, Skye yelped, then took a breath and said, “Fawn, I’m so sorry we startled you.”

“It’s my fault.” Fawn’s cheeks turned scarlet, and she hid her face by squatting down and inspecting the contents of the smashed carton. “My husband, Lee Harvey, always said I was clumsier than a goat on stilts.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it.” Skye shot Wally a look. He hadn’t mentioned that Mr. Irving shared a first name with a famous assassin. What in the world had his parents been thinking?

“Oh, I’m sure he did mean it,” Fawn said, “since Lee Harvey said it nearly every day for the past thirty-some years.” Fawn picked up the box and straightened. Facing them, she said, “Now, I bet you aren’t here to discuss my klutziness, so…” She trailed off, her brief show of spunkiness evaporating like an August raindrop on a tin roof.

“Do you remember me? I’m Skye Denison from the cat show?” Skye waited for the other woman to nod, then touched Wally’s forearm and said, “This is Chief Boyd, from the Scumble River Police Department. I believe you talked to Sergeant Quirk earlier.”

Fawn nodded again, but remained silent. Her blue
eyes were wide and her shoulders were tense. She stood flinching, as if expecting a blow.

“We need to ask you a few more questions.” Wally took the carton from Fawn and said, “Would it be okay if we talked inside? It’s too cold to stand around out here.”

Fawn bit her lip, and it was clear from her posture that she wanted to refuse, but suddenly she sagged and led them to the back door and into the kitchen. She flipped on the light and pointed to a couple of wooden chairs pulled up to an old walnut table.

Grabbing the kettle from the stove, she asked, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.” Wally took a seat and fished his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ve been drinking coffee all day, so I’m already sloshing.”

“I’d love a cup.” Skye smiled. “It’s always nice to meet another tea drinker. What’s your favorite kind? I like Earl Grey.”

“Lipton.” Fawn’s tone was dry. “Lee Harvey didn’t hold with spending money on anything fancy.” She opened a cupboard and took down two thick white mugs. “He said there was no difference between the expensive stuff and what you could buy at Aldi for half the cost.”

Aldi was a discount grocery chain that offered a nice selection of mostly generic and low-end products. The prices were good, but the store’s system of metal gates and turnstiles, as well as the charge for shopping bags and the cash-and-debit-card-only policy kept some people away. Still, the supermarket was a boon to families on a budget.

“Aldi is great,” Skye agreed. “I like a lot of their products, but I do indulge myself when it comes to tea and chocolate.”

Fawn didn’t comment, instead asking, “Do you take sugar or lemon?”

“Sweet’N Low if you have it, otherwise sugar is fine.”
Skye paused, thinking of Fawn’s display at the cat show, which had indicated she bred Oriental Shorthairs. Finally Skye said, “Pardon me for asking, but if your husband didn’t like you to spend money on fancy stuff, what did he think of your cat-breeding business?”

“He wasn’t happy when I first started, and he never let me enter a show.” Fawn rubbed her left wrist with her right hand as if remembering an injury. “But once I sold my first litter, he tolerated my babies.” She nodded to herself, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I made sure to keep them out of his way, just like I kept out of his way, and everything was fine.”

“Oh.” Skye bit her lip, hating that this fragile woman might have felt so hopeless she’d had to resort to violence to survive. “Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about neighbors complaining since your house is the only one on this stretch of the road.”

“Lee Harvey liked being out here on our own, but I sure wish that housing development they keep talking about would go in,” Fawn said, looking off into space. Then she abruptly changed the subject, asking, “Would you like to see my cattery?”

Skye glanced at Wally, and when he gave a slight nod and pointed to himself, then down, indicating Skye should go with Fawn and he would stay where he was, she said, “I’d love to. How many cats do you have?”

“Eight.” Fawn turned the kettle down to simmer, then motioned Skye to follow her. “You met Miss Pearl and Miss Opal at the show.” Fawn led the way down a series of hallways to the back of the house. “In addition, I have a stud and another queen. I just sold the last kitten from Miss Topaz’s litter yesterday.”

Fawn ushered Skye into a large room with multiple windows. From the well-used appearance of the furniture and the old computer in the corner, it was clear that
this was where Fawn spent most of her time. When she began dispersing treats, the cats that had been lounging on kitty condos, chairs, and the back of the sofa came running. She introduced Skye to each one, and indicated which liked to be petted and which didn’t tolerate strangers.

Skye wondered who had taken care of the animals while Fawn was in the hospital, but she didn’t ask, since she wasn’t sure how Wally wanted to handle their knowledge of her hospitalization. Instead, for the next fifteen minutes she petted and admired the beautiful cats.

Finally Skye looked at her watch. From Wally’s gestures, she had deduced that he wanted to look around the house without the owner’s knowledge. Had he had time? She couldn’t keep Fawn here much longer.