Murder of a Pink Elephant (26 page)

“This is kidnapping,” Skye grumbled. The last person she wanted to face was her mother.

May was waiting for them in the doorway of the reception area. Seeing Skye’s bedraggled appearance, she turned on Wally. “Walter Boyd, why isn’t this girl in the hospital?”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “She refused to go, and you ordered me to bring her here.”

“I’m okay, Mom. I just need a shower and I’ll be fine.”

May ran her fingers over Skye. “Well, you don’t seem to be bleeding anywhere.”

“Can I go home now?” Skye asked tiredly.

Wally shook his head. “Wait for me in my office. I want to talk to the tow truck driver before I let you go. Quirk tells me you didn’t see who hit you.”

“I couldn’t see anything because of the headlights.”

Skye detoured to the women’s room. After using the facilities—now she knew what people meant when they said something scared the pee right out of them—she washed her face and smoothed her hair back into a barrette. The bottoms of her slacks were heavy with mud and her shoes were ruined, but otherwise her clothes had survived remarkably well.

When she finished, Skye went to Wally’s office. It was empty and dark. Flipping on the light, she looked around. His padded chair beckoned, and she sank wearily into its cushioned depths. She noticed an envelope on his desk. Its typed label showed it had been sent to Mrs. Darleen Boyd at
an address in Clay City. The return address was Gibson Enterprises.

Skye chewed her lip. Should she or shouldn’t she? Tempted, she ran her fingertip along the edge. No, she wouldn’t. Wally could handle whatever mischief his ex-wife was up to. She had her hands full with more important matters.

Hearing footsteps in the corridor, Skye hastily moved to a chair on the other side of the desk. Moments later Wally walked around her and dropped into his chair. Skye forced her glance away from the desktop.

Wally’s gaze went from Skye to the envelope and his voice became dangerously quiet. “Were you snooping?”

“No, I was not.” Her face mirrored her indignation. “Why? Is there something you don’t want me to see?”

Wally swept the envelope into his middle drawer and closed it with a thump. “Something that’s none of your business.”

“Fine.” She stood and said, “In that case, I’ll be going.”

“Quirk will drive you home.” Wally turned and stared at the wall, dismissing her, but as she reached the door, he said, “Let it go this time. You can’t stop the amusement park from going up, you can’t figure out who killed Logan Wolfe, and you can’t single-handedly end drug use in Scumble River.”

It sounded like Wally was talking about himself. Skye squared her shoulders, ignoring her aching head and neck, and said quietly, “Maybe not single-handedly, but with help from my friends I will.”

Wally snorted. “People say they want the police to lower crime rates and win the war on drugs, but talk is cheap. Supply exceeds demand.” He tore his gaze from the wall and focused on her, a defeated expression settling on his features. “I’ll be forty years old next month. I’ve been a cop for eighteen of those years, and I’ve finally figured it out. The public
doesn’t want to pay the cost of what it would take for us to succeed.”

Skye left without replying. Forty. Maybe that was what was getting Wally down. Was he experiencing a midlife crisis?

When Skye got home, she called Simon and filled him in on her latest adventures. He wanted to come over, but she convinced him she would rather be alone.

Too many images were crowding her thoughts. There was Wally when he first came to Scumble River as a twenty-two year old fresh out of the police academy. That Wally, the one she’d had a crush on as a teenager, would never have done or said the things the current Wally was doing and saying. Then there were all the kids and families who had already been harmed by meth use. Lastly, there was Logan Wolfe: was he the villain or the dupe? Either way, no one had a right to kill him.

Now she just had to figure out what to do about it all. After being run off the road tonight, she didn’t fool herself. Whatever she did, she would be exposing herself to danger. But with Wally in his current funk, she didn’t seem to have much choice. Someone needed to clean house around Scumble River, and Skye was determined to find just the bottle of 409 to do it with.

  
CHAPTER 23
  

T
he next morning, Skye called Trixie for a ride to work. After explaining about the accident, Skye waited for her friend’s usual interest and concern, but except for a few perfunctory questions, Trixie was strangely silent.

Finally as they were walking into the school building Trixie asked, “Do you really believe that the amusement park development has something to do with the drugs and murder?”

“I can’t figure out exactly how,”—Skye shrugged—”but yes, I do think there’s some connection.”

“Last night, Owen and I signed the papers giving Moss Gibson an option to buy our farm.” Trixie twisted the strap of her purse. “If you’re right, I’ll feel as if we’re somehow supporting a drug dealer.”

Skye hugged her friend. “You did what you had to do. Besides, I’m sure Moss Gibson isn’t the one making or selling the drugs. There’s got to be some other link.”

After parting with Trixie, Skye went to her office and made a list of kids she wanted to talk to. Then she got out her appointment book and figured out where she could fit them into her already overbooked schedule. She knew she
was probably wasting her time by questioning them, but she had to give it a try.

The first one she shoehorned in was Elvis, grabbing him in the lobby before school officially began. He refused to tell her anything about who had supplied him with meth, although he did say he had “protection” from a big shot at school. Could Nathan Turner have been the dealer? With him gone now, what would happen?

The other teenagers were even less communicative. Those who knew weren’t talking, and those who didn’t know wanted to keep it that way. Skye could empathize. There was a sense of dread hanging over the school—almost as if the jury was out and everyone was waiting for a verdict.

When she walked outside after school that afternoon, her father was sitting at the curb in his old blue pickup, his brown lab, Chocolate, riding shotgun.

“Hi,” Skye said as she hopped into the cab, nudging the dog toward the center of the seat. Chocolate woofed but allowed himself to be moved. She scratched behind his ears, and with an elaborate doggy yawn, he stretched out between her and Jed.

“Your ma and I picked up the Bel Air from the garage and brought it to your place,” Jed said, putting the truck in gear and driving toward the exit. “Needs a new seatbelt; otherwise it’s fine.”

“Thanks. How long will it take to get the new belt?”

“Couple weeks.”

“I probably shouldn’t drive it without one, right?”

Jed shrugged.

Skye thought about that and told herself she’d only drive it around town, not on the highway. Besides, she rarely got above thirty-five miles an hour in Scumble River.

Jed turned into her driveway and stopped at the front door.

Skye gave Chocolate one last pat and jumped out of the cab. “Thanks, Dad. Let me know how much I owe you for the new seatbelt.” AAA had covered the towing charge. “See you tomorrow for Grandma’s birthday party.” Jed’s mother, Cora Denison, was turning eighty-four the next day, and the family was getting together for cake and ice cream after the mayoral debate.

Jed nodded, waved, and drove away.

Bingo greeted Skye as she walked into her cottage. She fed him, gave him fresh water, and cleaned his litter box, then went to change her clothes. She’d had all day to figure out what she would do next, and the only thing she had come up with was to go and see Ivy Wolfe again. Clearly, Wally didn’t intend to do anything more about the information regarding the Wolfes’ possible drug connection. Skye was pretty sure that the answers to at least some of her questions were out at the Wolfe farm.

Earlier that afternoon, Skye had checked with Bunny and found out Ivy was off work on Tuesdays. Then she had phoned Vince and asked him to call an emergency Pink Elephant meeting for six o’clock so that Rod would be occupied. If things went as planned, Ivy would be home and alone.

The minutes ticked by slowly. Skye ate supper and tried to watch TV. Impatiently, she flicked off the set and glanced at her watch—another half an hour before she could leave for Ivy’s.

She paced. Who had killed Logan and why? Was it a band member who was jealous of Logan’s opportunity for stardom? Was it Heather or Logan’s wife, upset over his straying affections? Or was it something to do with selling methamphetamine? If it were the meth, was he killed because he was cheating his partners or because he had sold drugs to the wrong parent’s child?

At precisely six o’clock, Skye turned into the Wolfes’ driveway.
She had forgotten how dark and unnerving the canopy of trees made the lane leading up to the house. It seemed to go on forever.

As she parked the Bel Air, Skye looked around for the dog. She had come prepared this time, having picked up a box of dog biscuits at the grocery store on the way over. She grabbed a handful, ready to use them to barter her safe passage from the car to the porch.

Skye got out and made her way to the front door. She knocked, waited a few minutes, and knocked again. The lights were on and a radio blared rock and roll, giving every indication that someone was home. Was Ivy just not answering her door?

After a moment Skye thought she heard footsteps behind her. She whirled around but saw nothing. Could it be the dog or were other animals roaming around?

A minute or so later the door was opened, and Ivy stood with a bath towel wrapped around her head, panting. “Sorry, I was washing my hair.”

Skye made an apologetic face. “Oh, I’m sorry for disturbing you. Do you have a second?”

“Just. I’m getting ready to go out.”

“It won’t take long.”

Ivy gestured Skye inside. “What do you want?”

Skye sat on the edge of a chair. “Uh, well, I talked to the people you and Rod suggested.” It was hard to start by asking if the woman’s dead husband had made dope for a living.

“And?” Ivy sprawled on the couch, looking totally apathetic.

“Seems that your property and the Fraynes’ farm are the key pieces in Moss Gibson’s development.”

“Then he’s not going to be able to build. I told you, I’m against that stupid amusement park.”

“The Fraynes have agreed to sell, so that would mean you’re the only one in his way.”

“And you think he killed Logan?”

“Could be.” Skye saw an opening. “Unless Logan was involved in something else dangerous. Something that someone might want to kill him over.”

Ivy’s eyes flickered, then she jumped to her feet and moved toward the door. “Nothing I know of. Look, sorry to throw you out, but I have to leave in a few minutes and I need to finish getting dressed.”

Skye couldn’t come up with any way to get Ivy to admit Logan was a meth “cooker” so she allowed herself to be ushered out of the house.

Back in the Bel Air, she thought hard. If Ivy were leaving soon, that would be the perfect time to look around. Skye put the car in gear and drove back down the lane. She had noticed a small turnout about a quarter mile down the road. She parked there, snatched the box of dog biscuits, and headed back to the Wolfe farm on foot.

She stuck to the side of the road, and planned to duck behind the trees if she met Ivy’s car coming down the lane. It was even creepier walking down the shrouded path and she was relieved to arrive back at the clearing.

The lights in the house were off and it looked unoccupied. Ivy must have already left. This was Skye’s chance to take a good look at the shed and garage. She had her Swiss Army Knife in the pocket of her jeans and thought she could probably pick the cheap button lock on the shed’s small door.

Skye approached the shed cautiously, keeping an eye out for the dog. As she neared the building, she paused and sniffed. What was that sickeningly sweet smell? She edged around the corner. The overhead door was up and Ivy was standing behind a table loaded with a mixture of kitchen utensils and science lab equipment.

The scene was exactly as the Internet article had described it. This was a meth lab, and Ivy was the “cooker.” Had she always been, or had she taken over when her husband died? Did she kill Logan to get the business? There was no time to figure that out. Skye needed to get back to her car and go for the police.

She flattened herself against the side of the building and poked her head around, prepared to pull back at any indication that she’d been seen. As soon as Ivy seemed distracted, Skye would make her getaway.

She watched as Ivy picked up a heavy glass beaker and placed it on a hot plate, then paused and consulted a well-thumbed spiral-bound notebook. Muttering to herself, she reached for a stack of coffee filters, “Logan, why’d you go and get yourself killed? I can’t run this lab on my own.” Empty blister packs of cold medicines were scattered along the table’s surface.

Skye started to inch away from the shed, hoping Ivy was too busy to notice any noise she might make during her retreat. A sound behind her made her freeze. She scanned the area but saw nothing. Had it been the dog? After waiting a few seconds, she continued to ease away from the building and toward the lane.

She was nearly all the way to the driveway when she heard a shot. Immediately, she dropped to the ground, rolled under some bushes, and covered her head with her arms. She waited, tensed for the next shot. Nothing happened. She had finally convinced herself that she hadn’t really heard anything and had just lifted her head to look around, when blue jean-clad legs ran past her heading for the road.

Ivy had been wearing black jeans. Someone else was running around the Wolfe farm. Should she go see if Ivy was okay, should she run like heck back to her car, or should she try to get in the house and call the police?

Before she could decide, she heard a
whoosh
, saw a blinding flash, and felt a wave of heat roll over her. She curled into a ball and started to pray, but the next explosion was even more powerful. Pieces of burning material began to rain down on her, something hit her head, and everything went black.