The Mezzo Wore Mink (29 page)

“
Pilgrims didn’t dance,” said Nancy, walking around Ian Burch and sitting in her chair. “They hated all kinds of music.”

“
You’re thinking of the Puritans,” squeaked Ian. “The Pilgrims came over from Holland by way of England. They were a good-natured, fun-loving people who loved life and insisted on the freedom of choice. The Puritans, on the other hand, were extremely intolerant of any points of view which conflicted with their own dogma.” He looked over his glasses, down his long nose and frowned at Nancy.

“
So,” said Dave, “dancing it is!”

We were suddenly interrupted by a woman’s scream rattling down the street, loud enough to be heard through the plate glass window of the police station. What echoed through the office was not a high-pitched scream of fear, but a scream laden with pain. Nancy, Dave, and I banged out the door, looked across the park in the direction of the commotion, and seeing the crowd gathering in front of Eden Books, took off at a run leaving Ian Burch, PhD, standing in the doorway.

“
Oh, my God!” I heard Cynthia say as we ran up. “Don’t move. I’ll call the ambulance.” Cynthia, draped in her Ginger Cat waitress apron, was kneeling down in front of someone, surrounded by seven or eight people who had raced out of the restaurant to see what the uproar was all about. We pushed our way through and found Hyacinth Turnipseed moaning on the sidewalk. Her glasses were askew, her eyes squinched shut and her face a mask of pain. Her back arched and her hands clawed at the unyielding fabric of the sidewalk. The peculiarity that drew every eye, however, was Hyacinth’s right leg. At the knee, the leg had discovered a new angle—an angle that gave a whole new meaning to the term “unnatural.”

“
Jiminy Christmas,” said Dave. “That’s gotta hurt!”

Nancy was already on her phone calling the ambulance. I squatted down next to Cynthia and looked at Hyacinth. She’d passed out.

“
They’re already in town,” Nancy said, flipping her phone closed. “Asthma attack on Cherry Avenue. They’ll be here in two minutes.”

“
Shouldn’t we try to put her leg back?” Cynthia asked.

I shook my head. “The paramedics will be here in a jiffy and they’ll get her leg stabilized.”

Cynthia shuddered.

“
Anyone know what happened?” asked Nancy.

“
I know exactly,” said Annette Passaglio. “I was having lunch and looking out the window and saw three of those Minquey things eating the flowers in the pots outside the bookstore. Hyacinth came out with a broom to scare them off, I think. She took a whack at one of them and it attacked her. The other ones, too.”

I looked skeptical.

“
Well, it didn’t really attack her,” said another patron. “I saw it as well. She was trying to hit one with a broom and the others sort of got tangled in her legs. Then she fell down and screamed.”

“
They did too attack!” insisted Annette. “And I want to know what you’re going to do about it?”

“
We’re after them,” Dave assured her. “They’ll all be rounded up before long.”

“
Hmmph,” grunted Annette as the ambulance screamed up to the curb, siren blaring.

•••

“
I have some news,” said Nancy. She came into my office with a big sheaf of papers in her hand. Ian Burch hadn’t waited for us.

“
Good news?”

“
Depends,” said Nancy with a shrug. “It’s about Davis Boothe.”

“
Hey, Dave,” I called. “C’mon in here and bring the donuts. We seem to have missed lunch.”

I sat down behind my desk. Dave came in with the aforementioned consumables and he and Nancy took the two seats across from me.

“
I have some news, too,” I said. “Payment on the life insurance policy that Upper Womb Ministries took out on Davis was denied. It was a fifty thousand dollar term policy, but it had the standard suicide clause, so no payoff. If it turns out to be murder, though, the Upper Womb can collect. Now, what’s your news?”

“
We’ve identified the victim,” said Nancy.

“
Which one?” said Dave, choosing a chocolate glazed with pink sprinkles.

“
Davis Boothe,” said Nancy, turning to the first page of her dossier. “Or rather, Josh Kenisaw.”

Dave stopped chewing with pink sprinkles still on his lips.

“
Davis Boothe is Josh Kenisaw?” I asked.

“
Right. Fingerprints confirm it. They even sent his dental records. I’ll check with Kent Murphee, but I’m almost positive it’s him.”

“
Do we have a story on Josh Kenisaw?”

“
Do we ever!” said Nancy. “Ever hear of Jack DeMille?”

“
Sure,” I said. “Senator from Iowa or one of those corn states.” Dave had resumed eating.

“
Kansas,” corrected Nancy. I nodded and she continued.

“
Oil billionaire from Topeka. His daughter was a freshman at Washburn University and was killed in a drunk driving accident.”

“
Let me guess,” I said. “Josh Kenisaw was the driver.”

“
Yep. He was a seventeen-year-old freshman at Washburn as well and was coming home from a frat party with Lori DeMille in the car. He flipped the car and hit a tree doing about sixty. She was killed instantly. He broke an arm and had some facial injuries. His blood alcohol level was point-two-four.”

“
Wow. He was stone-cold drunk. I’m surprised he could get the key in the ignition.” I reached for a donut. Glazed. Nancy turned a page.

“
He was charged as an adult. No surprise there. Senator DeMille also got the charges changed from vehicular homicide to second-degree murder and the prosecutor indicated they weren’t going to accept a plea. They were going to make an example of Josh. Bail was refused. I’m thinking that the judge was a friend of the Senator.”

“
Probably,” I said. “What was Josh looking at?”

“
In Kansas, the maximum sentence for second-degree murder is ten years and three months if there’s no other criminal history. But Josh had pleaded guilty to shoplifting when he was sixteen and had been given a suspended sentence. In fact, he was still on probation. I guess that’s how the prosecutor got it admitted, even though he was a juvenile. He was looking at life with a possibility of parole in nineteen years. They were going for the max.”

I let out a slow breath.

“
About halfway through the trial, Josh went into the bathroom during a break and disappeared. They don’t know how he escaped, but he was gone.”

“
Did he have a police escort?”

“
No, a bailiff. The baliff’s excuse was that he was busy talking to a reporter. The judge ordered the trial to continue declaring that ‘the defendant has voluntarily absented himself from the court and is deemed to have waived the right to be physically present at the trial.’ Josh Kenisaw was found guilty and sentenced to life.”

“
And never heard from again,” said Dave.

“
Right,” said Nancy. “That was twelve years ago.”

“
And he shows up here.”

“
Yep. Somehow got a Social Security card, then a driver’s license. I guess it’s not that difficult, really.”

“
He’d be twenty-nine,” I said absently. “His driver’s license says thirty-two. Nice touch.”

“
Here’s the kicker,” said Nancy. “There’s a bounty on Josh. Put up by the Senator.”

“
How much?” Dave asked.

“
Two million dollars.”

“
Holy smokes!” I said.

“
Can we…?” Dave started.

“
No, we can’t,” answered Nancy. “We’re law enforcement officers.”

“
I could quit,” said Dave.

“
You know what this means?” I said.

Nancy nodded. “Bounty hunter.”

“
Did you two find anything in
The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon?”

“
We went through it page by page,” she said. “I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary except Washington Irving’s autograph. Was he looking at that?”

“
I don’t know. He was flipping pages, then closed it and took off. I looked through it, too. I didn’t see anything.”

“
Something in one of the stories?” asked Dave. “Legend of Sleepy Hollow? Rip Van Winkle? Those are the only two I know.”

I picked up the book, still on Nancy’s desk and flipped to the appendix in the back. “I’ve heard of a few more of these, but there’s nothing here that would be considered well known except for those two.”

“
We can go through it again,” suggested Dave.

I shook my head. “I must be missing something. Do the authorities know we have him?”

“
Not yet,” said Nancy. “All I did was send in the prints and request the FBI file. It won’t be long though. I expect some grease has been applied to these particular wheels.”

•••

“
Hi, Kent,” I said. “How’re things at the coroner’s office?”

“
Surprisingly busy. It must be that time of year. Everyone’s trying to die before the holidays so they won’t get depressed.”

“
Sounds like a good plan. I will do my best to arrange my demise accordingly.”

“
See that you do. I hate to get bodies in the summer. They swell up like…”

“
I get the picture,” I said, cutting him off. “Now, down to business. You still have Davis Boothe in the morgue.”

“
You need him?”

“
I don’t know yet, but I expect I will.”

“
Hang on.”

I waited for a couple of minutes and then Kent came back on the line.

“
Hmm. Bad news.”

“
Bad news?”

“
I had a tag on him indicating for us to hold him for two weeks. Two weeks was up a couple of days ago. I guess we needed the freezer space. Keith sent him over to the crematorium on Tuesday.”

•••

A phone call confirmed our worst suspicions. Davis had been cremated late on Wednesday night, just scant hours ago. I explained, in no uncertain terms, to the crematorium employee—Ruby’s employee—that I would be there with a warrant in an hour or two and not to touch anything.

“
You don’t need a warrant, do you, dear?” asked Ruby. “I’m sure I can give you permission to search the place.”

“
Then I guess I don’t,” I replied with a smile. “I just wanted to scare the help. They don’t need to be touching anything until we get there.”

“
May I go along?” asked Ruby. “I’ve been out there and talked to the boys. Dale gave me a tour. But I don’t really know how these things work.”

“
You sure?” asked Nancy. “It’s not for the faint of heart.”