Murder of a Creped Suzette

CHAPTER 23

“Crazy”

When the dispatcher reported that the Dooziers had opened fire on their neighbors, Skye volunteered to accompany Wally to the scene of the crime. After five years of working at school with the endless supply of Doozier offspring, she had a friendly relationship with the eccentric family—unlike the other law enforcement employees in Scumble River and Stanley County.

Because of that rapport, she was hoping to act as a goodwill ambassador between the cops and the crackpots. But with the Dooziers, a breed unto themselves, there were no guarantees.

They lived by their wits, which should not be mistaken for smarts, and by their own set of rules, which should not be mistaken for what society calls laws. The latter was generally what got them into hot water. The former was generally how they got out without being scalded.

As Wally and Skye drove toward the Doozier property, she recalled a program she had attended her senior year in high school about the history of the town. The speaker had explained that the community had initially been confined to a fork between the two branches of the Scumble River but had eventually spread along both banks and beyond. That overflow was where they were heading now.

Skye remembered the historian talking about the two groups of people currently occupying the acreage along the south bank of the river. The newcomers had moved there from Chicago in the 1980s, and built summer cottages or retirement homes along a forested stretch of land. While these outsiders helped line the pockets of some Scumble Riverites and were welcomed by those town folks, they invaded the privacy of others. The others, who believed a good neighbor was one who lived far enough away to never be seen, were the original settlers known as the Red Raggers—of which the Dooziers were the ruling clan.

For the first couple of years, the interlopers and the Red Raggers had tested each other’s mettle, and eventually an uneasy alliance had been formed. Apparently, since shots had now been fired, that peace treaty must have been breached. Skye hoped it could be renegotiated without bloodshed.

Wally turned the squad car onto Cattail Path. They were entering Red Ragger country, and the first property they came to belonged to the Dooziers. It was shaped roughly like a right triangle, with the hypotenuse resting along the riverbank and the house situated at the smallest point. From the road, Wally and Skye could see only this tip, and from that limited vantage point there was no evidence of any disturbance.

But Skye wasn’t reassured. She was fairly certain the real action was taking place in the woods to the side of the house, as this was the land where the shortest leg of the triangle formed the boundary between the Dooziers and their nearest neighbor.

Wally parked and said to Skye, “Keep behind me until we know what’s going on.”

“Definitely.” The Dooziers might be her friends, but there was always the danger of getting shot by accident. And Wally was the one wearing the Kevlar vest.

He got out of the cruiser and Skye followed suit. The uneven ground in front of the run-down shack was covered with weeds and rocks. The carcasses of junked pickups, shells of old appliances, and a recently acquired troop of garden gnomes added to the obstacle course and forced them to pick their way gingerly toward the backyard.

At the gate, a crooked sign painted on a flattened carton read:

Paintball Advenchore!

Gauranteed Fun! Fun! Fun!

Yer very own rifle, shotgun, or uzi!

$5.00 fur haf hour/$25.00 fur haf day.

Skye was not surprised that the names of the weapons were among the few words the Dooziers had spelled correctly.

She and Wally peered over the fence. Several feet back, where the yard merged into the wooded area, a folding table with a pyramid of guns piled in the center teetered on crooked legs. Sitting with his cowboy boots propped up on the table’s surface was a skinny, densely tattooed man wearing a pair of jeans and several ammo belts crisscrossed over his bare chest. A camo bandanna tied around his head had slipped down over the upper third of his face, and empty beer cans were strewn next to his lawn chair like shiny red and silver leaves surrounding a scrawny maple tree.

Skye closed her eyes, praying it was all a hallucination. She could think of no positive outcome in a scenario that included a drunken Earl Doozier pretending to be Rambo.

Skye glanced at Wally and whispered, “What now?” It was never a good idea to startle an armed Doozier, especially an inebriated one.

Wally tried the gate; it was unlocked. Clearing his throat, he stepped over the metal threshold and said, “Earl, are you awake?”

A snore that sounded like a backfiring leaf blower erupted from Earl’s open mouth, and he screwed up his face, then turned away from them.

“Earl?” Wally inched closer and raised his voice. “Wake up, Earl.”

There was no reaction from the sleeping man, but the dogs penned nearby jumped against the steel mesh of their cage, bouncing off it while barking and baring their teeth at Skye and Wally.

Skye spotted a bamboo fishing rod leaning against a dilapidated shed. She whispered her idea to Wally, who shook his head no, but she ignored his instructions and squeezed past him. Giving the furious animals a wide berth, she grabbed the pole and inched her way toward Earl.

Once within reach, she used the rod to tap the sleeping Doozier on the shoulder, saying in her outdoor voice, “Earl, wake up.”

He leaped from his chair, wrestling with the bandanna that was blinding him, and yelped, “I wuz jes’ restin’ my eyes, honey pie.”

“It’s Skye, Earl.” Skye took a step closer but then quickly moved downwind. The excessive use of cologne could delay the need to bathe for only so many days, and Earl was way overdue. “Chief Boyd and I are here to talk to you about some complaints from your neighbors.”

Earl finally tore off the bandanna and scowled. “You sceered me half to death, Miz Skye.” A confused look stole over his face. “Hey, what happens if you gets sceered half to death twice?”

Having no good answer, Skye ignored his question and settled for apologizing. “Sorry for startling you, Earl.”

“That’s okay, Miz Skye.” His wide smile revealed several stumps and missing teeth. “What’re you doin’ here? I heared yew and yer intended were hot on the trail of a murderer.” He loped toward her.

“We are, but one of your neighbors called the police station and said you were shooting at them, so we came to check it out.” Skye allowed herself to be hugged, trying not to make contact with any of his many tattoos. Tattoos usually felt smooth, but Earl’s were as odd as he was and they radiated a heat that Skye figured explained his penchant for going shirtless even in the coldest weather.

“They’s lyin’.” Earl let Skye go and scratched the bowling ball–size potbelly that hung over his waistband. “Ain’t nobody shootin’ at ’em. We was jes’ settin’ up our new Paintball Advenchore bizness. You know, gettin’ ready for the zillions of payin’ customers that that Country Roads guy promised to bring in.”

“Rex Taylor talked to you?” Skye was surprised that the entrepreneur had enlisted the Dooziers in his schemes. “When was that?”

“I cain’t rightly say.” He tugged at his greasy brown ponytail. “A couple or three days afore that free concert he put on.” The sunshine highlighted the cereal bowl–size bald spot on Earl’s head. “He invited the whole part and parcel of us along the river here to a shindig at the country club. He tol’ us that iffen we come up with stuff for the tourists to do or somethin’ for them to buy, we’d all get rich.”

Skye turned to Wally, who had joined her, but before she could speak she spotted an elderly woman wearing a flowered neon green muumuu and red high-top sneakers teetering across the dead grass toward them. She looked old enough to have had dinosaurs for pets and meaner than a soccer mom whose son didn’t make the team.

The infamous MeMa was on the prowl. She was the clan matriarch and Earl’s grandmother, or maybe great-grandmother; Skye had never quite untangled the Dooziers’ twisted family tree.

MeMa walked up to Skye, squinted, and said in a thin quaver, “I heared you were nosin’ around askin’ questions about the Neals.”

“Yes.” Skye paused to consider the best way to respond. Mentioning her connection with the police would be a mistake. “I’m trying to help find out who murdered that poor girl.”

“Ain’t nobody cared who killed her ma.” MeMa glared at Skye. “And she was a mighty fine lady.” The old woman’s tone was defiant. “I cleaned for her once a week back then and she always treated me real nice. Made me a hot lunch. She even poured the beer into a glass.”

“Paulette’s death was an accident,” Skye said cautiously. “Wasn’t it?”

“Maybe, maybe not.” MeMa shrugged. “But consid-erin’ her husband was playin’ around on her, I sure wouldn’a taken his word for what happened.”

“Do you know who his lover was?”

“Yeah.” MeMa’s smile was like a bear trap, her faded brown eyes disappearing into the wrinkles around them. “Theys thought they was so la-di-da smart, but I seed them a-kissin’ and a-huggin’ in her fancy car.”

Skye’s heart was pounding. “Who was it?”

“You sure you want to know?” A crafty expression stole over MeMa’s face.

“Yes.” What did the old woman mean by that? Skye hoped the can of worms she was about to open wouldn’t be too slimy.

“Your aunt.” MeMa turned and tottered back toward the house.

“Which one?” Skye called after her.

“The mayor’s wife.” The screen door slammed shut behind MeMa, cutting off anything else she might have added.

Holy smokes! Skye was stunned. Did Uncle Dante know that Aunt Olive had had an affair with Quentin Neal? More importantly, had Olive been involved in his wife’s death? And if she had, was she also involved in Suzette’s?

Wally, who had been silent, stepped forward, allowing Skye time to recover from MeMa’s shocking news. “Earl, you said that Rex Taylor encouraged you to start a paintball attraction?”

“Not eggsacly.” Earl reached into a cooler, fished out a dripping can of beer, and popped the top. “Axtually, we was gonna do another pettin’ zoo, like the one we done for the Route 66 Hundred Mile Yard Sale, but instead of a lion, this time we were gonna get more tamish kindsa animals.” Earl chugged some beer, then continued. “So we goed to the llama and emu ranch over near Kankakee. But we seed Owen Frayne workin’ there and we figured he already took that idea.”

Skye frowned. Trixie hadn’t mentioned Owen was working at—But before her thought could fully form, she heard a high-pitched laugh that reminded her of a deranged birthday clown.

Emerging from the wooded area behind them, and carrying a submachine gun, was Glenda Doozier. From her purple-stiletto-clad feet to her dyed blond hair, she was the embodiment of an ideal Red Ragger woman, but all Skye could think of was—how in the heck had Glenda been able to navigate the woods in four-inch heels?

“Ain’t she somethin’?” Earl thrust out his bony chest. “I knew she was my one and only since the day I read that stuff about her on the bathroom wall in the boys’ locker room. I asked her to go frog giggin’ that very night.”

“That’s so . . .” Skye searched for the right word and gave up. “Well, it’s always good to strike while the—”

“Bug is close,” Earl finished for her, then rushed over to his wife. “Baby doll, look who’s here. Miz Skye and her future hubby.”

Glenda ignored Skye and Wally, and poked Earl with the shotgun. “What do they want?”

“One a our highfalutin’ neighbors claimed we was a-shootin’ at ’em.” Earl rubbed the spot on his shoulder where she had jabbed him.

“We ain’t done nothin’ wrong.” Glenda crossed her arms, the gun shoving her considerable bosom nearly out of the iridescent purple tank top she wore.

“I already explained that, dumplin’,” Earl whined. “Yew got paint in yer ears?”

She turned on her husband. “If brains were water, you wouldn’t have enough to baptize a flea.”

“Now, Glenda.” Wally stepped forward. “There’s no need to get upset.”

“Yer right.” Glenda narrowed her rabbitlike eyes. “ ’Cause we got a right to do what we want on our own land. And those nosy Parkers next door can jes’ shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

“That’s true, but you have to make sure none of the paint pellets land on your neighbors’ property.” Wally’s tone was firm.

Skye recoiled, then scooted behind Wally. Telling Glenda something she didn’t want to hear was dangerous. Not to mention she held grudges long past their expiration date, and she and Skye had gotten off on the wrong foot when they’d first met five years ago.

When Glenda didn’t respond, Wally added, “And if you’re going to run a business, you need to check out the zoning laws and get a license.”

As quick as a mongoose attacking a cobra, Glenda leveled the shotgun. Wally dove to one side and Skye turned to run. But it was too late. Glenda had already squeezed the trigger.