Page 17 of Devil's Hour
Royce bit the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting. Doing them a favor? He’d found a letter in their morning newspaper that threatened the city of Savannah in general and his wife specifically and hadn’t cared enough to escort her to the police station to report the incident. Royce had gotten a weird vibe from the meeting with Mayor Goodwin, and this encounter with her husband felt just as bizarre. Why? It could’ve been his aversion to politicians in general, but it felt like more.
The kitchen that Call Me Skip showed them to was large and modern, unlike the parts of the house they passed through to get there. There was a bow window over the sink, allowing a lot of sunlight to filter in to nourish the fresh herbs sitting in the windowsill and the potted plants spread throughout the room. They’d painted the walls a sunny yellow, the only spot of color besides the plants in the otherwise white room. Where the rest of the house looked like a museum, the kitchen showed signs of a well-used space. A butcher block cutting board, darkened from age and stained from use, sat on the white tile counter with precisely diced tomato and cucumber on top of it. Noting the presence of the large, serrated knife, Royce sized up the rest of the room, taking in the mix-matched coffee cups hanging from pegs above the coffee pot, and the copper pots and pans suspended from a heavy metal rack over the kitchen island cooktop where a skillet sat with a piece of seared chicken in it. If Royce hadn’t known better, he would’ve sworn he’d walked into a different house.
Mr. Goodwin gestured to an old, battered oak table tucked in the corner of the room. “Why don’t you guys have a seat. You can ask your questions while I finish putting together my grilled chicken salad. I would kill for a greasy cheeseburger and fries, but not with my age and cholesterol levels.” Royce knew Skip Goodwin was in his mid-fifties, but he looked ten years younger.
“Let’s start with your morning,” Royce said, watching as the man pulled a bag of salad and a bottle of ranch dressing from inside the refrigerator.
“Started like any other.” Call Me Skip poured the salad in a bowl, added his tomatoes and cucumbers, then topped it with the piece of chicken before pouring a generous serving of dressing on top. “I hit the elliptical at six, showered, started the coffee pot, then went to retrieve the paper.” He returned the salad and dressing to the refrigerator, then removed a fork and knife from a drawer inside the island. “I made blueberry and banana oatmeal while the coffee was brewing.” Skip carried the salad to the table, then sat across from Royce and Sawyer. “I should’ve asked if you wanted some. I’ve lived in the Hostess City long enough to have learned proper Southern graces.”
Not on the phone,Royce thought. “We already ate, but thank you.”
“I guess I’m more rattled by what happened than I realized. I thought the letter was just a dumb joke, but you’re not smiling.”
“We never smile on Mondays.” Sawyer’s attempt to make Mr. Goodwin relax worked. His posture lost its rigidity, and he loosened his white-knuckled grip on the utensils.
“I know the feeling,” he quipped while slicing the chicken breast into long, even strips. “Anyway, I feel bad that I didn’t go with Lyn to the police precinct this morning. It would’ve saved us all time this afternoon.” It was very telling that Mr. Goodwin was more concerned about time management than providing moral support to his wife, which said a lot about the state of their marriage. “It probably looks bad that she went by herself.” Skip turned the bowl and began cutting the chicken in the opposite direction, turning the strips of chicken into uniform cubes.
“She wasn’t alone,” Royce corrected, then waited for a reaction.
Call Me Skip’s hands stilled, and he glanced up, briefly meeting Royce’s eyes before returning his focus to the chicken. Nodding, he said, “Of course, Ryan went with her. He’s a good kid. Reminds me of his dad.”
“His dad?” Sawyer asked.
“My brother-in-law, Travis Tedrick,” he said, setting his knife down and spearing a chunk of salad and popping it into his mouth.
“Ryan is your nephew, then?” Sawyer asked, then waited for him to chew before answering. Even though Sawyer hadn’t asked agotchaquestion, it occurred to Royce that Call Me Skip’s need to meet while eating was convenient. It afforded him the chance to think about his responses under the guise of chewing. Police officers were trained to watch body language, and a person’s hesitancy to answer a question often spoke louder than words.
“Only by marriage. Travis was married and had a kid before he met my sister. I think Ryan was five when Regina and Travis got married. Lyn needed someone she could trust to assist her during the campaign and then again later when she won the election. Ryan was fresh out of college with degrees in political science and mass communication and the perfect choice. It also helps that they just click.”
Royce thought of the stiff way both the mayor and Ryan had sat in Chief Rigby’s office. She hadn’t so much as made eye contact with Ryan or acknowledged him until she needed him to perform a task. No one would have ever guessed the mayor had known him since he was a small child or described them as two people who clicked.
“What time did you retrieve the paper?” Royce asked.
“Seven-ish like every day except Sunday,” Goodwin said, forking another bite of salad. “I refuse to get out of bed before nine on Sunday.”
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary this morning? Maybe a parked car that didn’t belong or a person walking their dog that you’d never seen in the neighborhood before this morning?” Sawyer asked.
Still chewing, Call Me Skip shook his head.
“Did you hear anything unusual? A neighbor’s dog barking incessantly or abnormally? An unfamiliar rumble of a vehicle or truck that seemed out of place?” Royce pressed.
Goodwin swallowed his bite. “None of those things.”
“What about the paper itself,” Sawyer tried. “Were there any sections missing?”
He tipped his head to the side and thought about it. “Now that you mention it, the paper bag was a different color plastic. It’s typically clear but was blue today.” They wouldn’t know if that detail was significant until they tracked down Hector Rodriguez.
“Can I ask why you had the presence of mind to save the letter but discarded the newspaper it arrived in?” Royce asked.
Skip shrugged. “To be honest, I’m surprised I had thepresence of mindto preserve the letter, Detective.” Royce didn’t care for his mocking tone of voice or the way he deliberately addressed him incorrectly. The man hadn’t forgotten; he wanted to needle Royce, but he wouldn’t take the bait.
After a few more questions, Royce and Sawyer thanked him for his time, then left him to eat while they headed toward the front of the house. Royce saw the security keypad by the front door and had a thought. He held up his finger for Sawyer to wait, then backtracked to the kitchen. Skip had his cell phone out and was furiously typing when Royce stepped into the room. He might’ve been responding to an email, but Royce would lay down money he was texting someone about the interview. Who? The mayor?
“One last thing,” Royce said, startling Call Me Skip.
“Oh!” he said, placing a hand on his chest. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Royce said, aiming his most disarming smile at the man. “I noticed you have a security system. I’m going to recommend you upgrade to a package that includes video surveillance. I wish I could assure you this is an isolated incident, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”