Murder of a Creped Suzette

by Denise Swanson

  Skye ignored his cynicism. “Where are we going?” she asked, cringing because she already knew the answer. There was only one place in this direction where they sometimes held conferences.

  “The library.”

  Of course. Where else? Skye tried to hang back, but Homer kept pulling.

  When they arrived, Skye was relieved to see that Trixie had seated Mrs. Gooding as far as possible from the storage room where Toby was currently ensconced. As Skye and Homer were sitting down, the final bell rang, and a few minutes later Ian’s teachers began to assemble.

  Once everyone was present, Homer said, “Mrs. Gooding, what is it you’d like to discuss?”

  “First—” A series of sneezes interrupted her. Once she found a tissue, blew her nose, and accepted a round of God bless yous, she continued. “I’d like to thank you all for your hard work with Ian. He hasn’t complained about being bored once yet.” She paused, sneezing twice more, then said, “But he has expressed an interest in dropping physical education and taking a real class in its place.”

  “Well.” Homer stroked a tuft of hair that poked between the buttons of his shirt. “The problem with that is he needs PE credits to graduate.”

  “But—” Mrs. Gooding broke off, overcome by a bout of sneezing. Once she had wiped her nose, she said, “Sorry. I can’t think what’s making me sneeze. The only thing I’m allergic to is dogs.”

  Skye stole a quick glance at the storage room. A white paw was sticking out from under the door. “It’s probably mold,” she suggested. “This is an old building after all.” She had to get this meeting over with ASAP. “Maybe we should move somewhere else.”

  Homer glared at Skye. “I’m sure we’re almost done. Right, Mrs. Gooding?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Gooding dabbed at her watering eyes with a Kleenex. “I just wanted to speak to the math teacher about the note you sent me yesterday.”

  “The one about Ian’s assignments?” the math teacher asked.

  “Uh-huh.” Mrs. Gooding nodded. “I checked with him, and he said that his homework is not missing; it’s just having an out-of-notebook experience.”

  Skye looked to see if Mrs. Gooding was joking, but her expression was completely serious.

  “Fine.” The math teacher didn’t blink. “Please tell Ian that his homework better rematerialize by tomorrow or he’s getting a zero.”

  “Anything else?” Homer interjected before Mrs. Gooding could respond.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Gooding turned to Skye. “How is Ian’s counseling going?”

  “Slow but sure.” Skye’s tone was encouraging. “He’s starting to talk more.”

  “About?”

  “I can’t discuss specifics.” Skye shifted in her chair. “Remember, I told you about confidentiality when you signed the permission slip?”

  “Good.” Homer shoved back his chair. “Then if there’s nothing else . . . ?”

  “One more thing.”

  While Mrs. Gooding paused for another sneeze, Skye watched in horror as one of Trixie’s student helpers walked up to the storage room, inserted her key, and opened the door. Toby erupted from the confined space like Silly String from a can.

  Skye took off after him, but he eluded her every attempt to corral him. She and the dog did a few laps around the library. Books flew off the shelves as Skye tried to right herself while she skidded around corners. Toby took the same hairpin turns with ease. He looked back every once in a while to see if Skye was keeping up with him, but the moment she got near enough to grab him, he danced away, yipping excitedly.

  Finally he grew bored with the game, abruptly changed direction, and zipped over to where everyone in the meeting was sitting. Before Skye could reach him, he ran up to Homer, raised his leg, and peed on the principal’s shiny black shoes.

  Toby’s antics put a quick halt to the conference. Homer barely waited until everyone had fled before he laid into Skye. His tirade eventually wound down, ending with, “And I want a new pair of these exact same shoes on my desk by tomorrow morning or you’re fired.”

  “Where—?”

  “Franklin’s in Clay Center. Size ten double-E. They close at six.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m so sorry.” Skye stared at the floor as she explained her predicament. Lifting her head, she said, “It won’t happen again. I . . .” She trailed off; Homer was no longer there. The only trace of him was his soaked, smelly shoes left in the middle of the table.

  Having already deposited Toby in her car, Skye was walking back to her office to get her purse when the school’s music teacher, carrying a large box that obstructed her view, bumped into Skye in the hall. The impact caused the contents to spill all over the floor.

  “Oops.” Noreen Iverson was in her late forties, with a smooth complexion and comfortable figure. “You must think I’m really clumsy.”

  “Not at all.” Skye squatted to help the woman gather her belongings. “I drop stuff all the time.”

  “I guess I’m a little distracted today.” Noreen’s cheeks turned red. “I heard some disturbing news this morning and I can’t get it out of my mind.”

  “Oh?”

  “About the poor girl who was found dead at the old Hutton dairy.” Noreen picked up pages of music and stuffed them into the carton.

  “Yes.” Skye was thankful no one seemed to know that she was the one who had found the body.

  “My niece is an EMT and she was called out there to take care of some woman who fainted,” Noreen explained. “She heard one of the officers say the dead girl was Suzette Neal.”

  “Really?” Great! The news was out before the identification was official. She’d have to let Wally know. “The singer from Saturday night’s concert?”

  “Yes.” Noreen straightened. “But I knew her when she was just a baby.”

  “I saw from the flyer that she was from around here,” Skye said, hoping to encourage the woman to continue.

  “Her father was my supervisor when I student taught here twenty-seven years ago.” Noreen’s hazel eyes softened. “He was such a sweet, handsome guy.”

  “Did he work here long?” Skye nabbed another stray sheet of music and handed it over.

  “Just that one year. His wife died very suddenly—a terrible accident—and he was a changed man after that.” Noreen hoisted the refilled carton into her arms, adding as she walked away, “In fact, when he left, they offered me his job and I’ve been here ever since.”

  Well, that solved one mystery. Mr. Neal had been a teacher. When Skye got to her office, she pulled out the list of questions she’d made regarding Mrs. Neal’s death and made a quick note. Another thing to share with Wally when she talked to him this afternoon.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Mama He’s Crazy”

  A few minutes later, when Skye slid into her car, Toby greeted her with a tail wag and a happy woof. For a second, she relaxed and stroked his soft white fur, but then the memory of Wally saying he wanted to talk to her about something personal intruded.

  She had deliberately refused to think about what he’d said, and had even managed to stop herself from asking him about it when he’d called that morning. Now that she was on her way to meet him, there was no avoiding the panicky feeling in the pit of her stomach. If the news had been good, he would have told her right away, which meant it must be bad. Just how bad was the question.

  When Skye arrived at the police station, the municipal parking lot it shared with the city hall and library was full again. Unless Dante and the music promoter were having another meeting, this late in the afternoon there should have been only four automobiles present: one belonging to the dispatcher, one to the officer on duty, one to the librarian, and one to the city clerk. So why was the tiny lot suddenly packed?

  As she circled the small patch of asphalt looking for an empty spot, Skye noticed a white van with a huge antenna sticking up from the roof taking up two spaces. A few vehicles down, a similar van also hogged multiple slots, and another, a little way from that
one, had parked over the painted lines as well. In front of the last van, the drummer and keyboard player from Flint James’s backup band were being interviewed by a reporter.

  Hmm. Now Skye knew why, when she’d tried to call Wally a few minutes ago to let him know she was on her way, all the police lines had been busy, even his private number. The media had invaded Scumble River.

  Evidently, as Father Burns had said in one of his sermons, even though there are no new sins, the old ones are getting a lot more publicity than in the past. They’d been fairly lucky that previous deaths involving somewhat well-known individuals hadn’t attracted as much notice. In those cases, either the celebrities had been too minor for reporters to bother, or word of the murder hadn’t spread until after the case was solved. Up until now, the over-the-hill supermodel’s murder had been the worst, with reporters stealing trash from the crime scene, but this all-out blitz went way beyond that coverage.

  While Suzette was far from a household name, it was clear that the manner of her death or the fame of the others involved—or both—had chummed the water, and a feeding frenzy was in progress.

  A door on one of the vans was flung open, catching Skye’s attention. She turned in time to see a tall, skinny young man with a massive camera perched on his shoulder bolt out of the vehicle, followed by an overly made-up young woman clutching a microphone.

  Holy crap! They were coming straight at her. Skye revved the Bel Air’s engine and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. Bitter experience had taught her that any contact with reporters was to be avoided at all costs.

  Her tires squealing, she sped out of the lot, then tore down Maryland, hanging a right on Kinsman. Once she was out of view, Skye slowed and turned into the driveway of Holy Redeemer, a recently defunct nondenominational house of worship. After parking as far from the church as possible, she exited the Chevy.

  With Toby on his leash, she started across the grassy strip separating the PD and the church’s parking lot. This time she not only had to smuggle a dog into a building; she had to sneak herself in as well.

  As she walked, she dug through her tote looking for the key to the police garage’s back entrance. Thank goodness Wally had given her one after a recent mix-up. Of course, the little piece of metal was at the very bottom of her bag, hidden by a gum wrapper, an expired cat food coupon, and a crumpled tissue.

  When Skye neared the steel door, Toby stiffened and started barking. At first she thought he had caught the scent of a squirrel or a rabbit, but as she scanned the area, she noticed a journalist lurking near the corner of the building. Duh! Of course, someone would cover the rear of the station.

  She tightened her hold on Toby’s lead and asked him loudly, “What’s there, boy?”

  The little dog growled.

  “Is it a nasty reporter?” Skye stuck the key in the lock and turned it.

  The growling increased.

  “If anyone tries to push his way inside with us,” Skye said, scooping up Toby, “bite him.”

  She darted over the threshold and slammed the heavy door behind her. Looking around, she noted that both squad cars and the chief’s cruiser—Scumble River PD’s entire transportation fleet—were parked in the garage. No one was out patrolling.

  Skye threaded her way among the vehicles and into the station’s rear entrance, which led to a short passageway. To her right she could hear loud voices coming from the reception area. She wasn’t sure who she felt sorrier for—her mother, who was the dispatcher on duty, or the journalists trying to get past May.

  The cubicles that lined the hallway, usually empty, were filled today with officers on the phone or the computer, or both. From the snatches of conversation she overheard, half of the officers were looking for background information on Suzette, while the others were handling calls from the media.

  As soon as those in the latter group hung up, the telephone would ring. They’d pick up the receiver, listen for a moment, and repeat, “We have no more information at this time.”

  Shuddering, Skye was glad she hadn’t been assigned to that duty. She and Toby hurried to the back of the building and trotted up the steps. They paused at the top as she glanced uneasily through the archway. She was half afraid the mayor would pop out at her like a malevolent jack-in-the-box, so when she saw that Dante’s office door was closed, she took a relieved breath. She felt even better when she saw that there wasn’t any light coming from underneath his door.

  Her uncle must have left for the day or was downstairs talking to the media. Either way, Skye was glad she wouldn’t have to deal with him. Since she’d been the one to discover the body, she was sure the mayor would find a way to blame her for any bad publicity Scumble River received.

  Skye’s heart turned over when she saw Wally behind his desk. He exuded a masculine magnetism that reached out to something inside her. As she got closer and saw the lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes and mouth, her chest tightened. While she had been home resting last night, he’d had to stay at the grisly crime scene, dealing with everyone involved and all that went into an investigation of this magnitude.

  At the first sight of Skye, Wally rose to his feet. In one swift movement he met her halfway across the office and gathered her to his chest in a fierce embrace.

  She kicked the door closed, locked it, and dropped Toby’s leash, then buried her face against the strong, warm column of his throat. It was a rare moment of pure pleasure, and she enjoyed it fully.

  With his lips against her hair, Wally whispered, “I’ve been thinking about holding you like this all day.” His large hands framed her face and held it gently while his dark eyes caressed her.

  “Me, too.” She wound her arms around his waist and stroked his back.

  “In that case, maybe I should make your dreams come true right now.”

  “Here?” Skye was distracted by his thumb stroking her jaw.

  “Well, your ghost makes it risky to try to make love at your place.” His words were teasing. “Half the time she even blocks my phone calls.”

  Skye knew Wally didn’t really believe it was the spirit of Alma Griggs that caused things to blow up, catch on fire, or flood every time they went beyond a chaste kiss on the cheek at her house, but Skye wasn’t so sure. Just to be on the safe side, they’d gotten into the habit of hanging out at Wally’s.

  “Guess I need to sprinkle some holy water around,” Skye murmured. “Or maybe get Father Burns to perform an exorcism.” The jolt of electricity where Wally’s thigh brushed her hip made it hard to breathe, let alone concentrate on forming a coherent sentence.

  “Or,” he purred as he tugged off her cardigan, leaving only the thin camisole she wore underneath, “you could move in with me.” He nipped at the sensitive cord running from her ear down her neck.

  “I don’t think we should . . .” Skye tried to bring both of them to their senses. “I mean, what if someone . . . ?” She lost her train of thought when he arched her body into his and locked his hands against her spine. “It wouldn’t be good if someone . . .” There was a reason they shouldn’t be doing this, but darned if she could think of it.

  “True.” His lips hovered above hers as he spoke. “But right now I don’t care.”

  Skye stopped trying to resist and pressed her open mouth to his. He needed no further invitation and his kiss devoured her.

  A few minutes or hours or days later, a bright flash of light exploded in front of her. Wally’s head whipped around and he swore violently. Careful to keep Skye behind him, he turned toward the intruder.

  At the same time, a white blur rocketed past the couple, launched itself at the guy standing in the open door wielding the camera, and knocked him down.

  “Get this freaking animal off of me!” Kicking and screaming, Camera Guy tried to dislodge the little dog from his leg. “It’s trying to kill me!”

  Before Skye could respond, footsteps thundered up the stairs and her mother rushed over to the fallen cameraman. May attempted to haul him
to his feet, but her five feet, two inches and 120-pound frame was at a disadvantage against the much bigger man.

  “Citizen’s arrest! ” May yelled at him as she struggled, making it clear that her intent was not to rescue him, but to take him into custody. “Citizen’s arrest.”

  Close on May’s heels were the officers who had been working the phones.

  Anthony, a part-timer, reached them first. His face was beet red and he was stammering. “Uh, Chief, I, uh, we’re, uh . . . This weasel slipped through the gate when I went to help Mrs. Denison with those dang reporters. He must’ve hid somewhere real fast, ’cause he disappeared. We looked everywhere, and were checking in the garage when we heard the ruckus up here.”

  Skye stepped around Wally and grabbed Toby. Searching for a place to contain him, she finally gave up and tied his leash to the desk. After admonishing the little dog to stay, she turned and saw Wally pulling May off the downed cameraman.

  Once he had separated May from the guy, Wally took the man by the arm and announced to his employees, “Okay, everyone. I’ll handle this. You all can get back to work.”

  But Skye’s mother stood firm, with her arms crossed over her chest and a stubborn expression on her face.

  “May”—Wally’s voice was cool and unyielding—“I meant you, too.”

  At one time Wally and Skye’s mother had been close, but May’s objection to his engagement to her daughter had introduced considerable tension into that relationship. May believed Wally wasn’t young enough to father a sufficient number of grandchildren for her; plus he was divorced, an additional mark against him. He was trying to get an annulment, but there was little he could do about his age.

  “I want to press charges against this jerk.” May narrowed eyes that were the same emerald green as her daughter’s. “He broke into the station, pushed me out of the way, and when I fell against a file cabinet, I tore my best uniform pants.”

  “Are you all right?” Wally and Skye asked in unison.