Murder of a Creped Suzette

by Denise Swanson

  “Yes. It seems that when the rent came due for the previous facility, Dante had the city hall custodians move everything to the place he owned. That must have been when the ones in the basement got all messed up, since he instructed them to reshuffle the boxes and leave the most recent ten years’ worth at the PD.” Wally scowled. “Of course, no one thought to mention any of this to me.”

  “What a shock.” Skye snickered, then demanded, “Now, what about Owen?”

  “He told me the same thing about his absence on Saturday afternoon and evening that he told Trixie.” Wally stopped for a grain truck turning into a field. “He ran into an old friend after his business meeting and they went into Joliet for a drink.”

  “What was the name of the friend?” Skye asked. “Did that person confirm Owen’s story?”

  “Owen wouldn’t identify his companion. He hemmed and hawed, and said he’d rather not involve anyone else.” Wally’s expression was rueful. “He did, however, give me permission to look at his truck so I could see that there was no damage from any accident.”

  “Rats!” Skye stopped petting Toby. “Did you promise him that whatever he told you would stay between the two of you?”

  “Yes, but I could tell he didn’t trust me.” Wally glowered. “And when I pressed him, he wouldn’t budge. That guy is more stubborn than ants at a picnic.”

  “Double crap!”

  “Furthermore, since everything that points to him as a suspect is circumstantial, I have no way to compel him to tell me.” Wally tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Plus, my hands are tied because I really don’t want to alert him to the fact that he might be a suspect.”

  “Well, that stinks.” Skye scratched behind Toby’s ears, causing the little dog’s tail to thump like a metronome and his hind end to wiggle in ecstasy. “On another note, did you get my message about Suzette’s twin?”

  “Yes.” Wally concentrated on navigating the T-bird around a curve. “Good work.”

  “Thanks.” Skye basked in Wally’s praise. “Have you found out his name?”

  “Not so far. Like everything else to do with this case, the light at the end of the tunnel always turns out to be glowing eyes with claws and teeth.” Wally blew out an irritated breath. “Discovering the brother’s identity is turning out to be harder than it should be.”

  “Can’t you just get ahold of his birth certificate?” Skye asked.

  “I put Quirk on that as soon as I got your message. But since we don’t know where Suzette and her twin were born, he hasn’t had any luck.”

  “So, what is Quirk doing now?”

  “He’s checking state by state”—Wally’s lips formed a thin line—“starting with Illinois and moving outward. So far, he hasn’t found any male with the last name of Neal who shares Suzette’s birthday.”

  “Is there any other way to find Suzette’s twin?” Skye asked.

  “The county crime scene techs have her laptop and are looking through her e-mail and files. And the Nashville police are talking to her friends and neighbors, so maybe they’ll come across someone who can help us identify her brother.” Wally shook his head. “They already searched her apartment and didn’t find anything helpful—no birth certificate or passport or personal correspondence.”

  “So if there’s nothing on her computer and none of the people in Nashville know anything, what next?”

  “If the name of her son isn’t in Paulette Neal’s file, I’ll try the federal databank.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a database of birth records of all fifty states.” Wally frowned. “Unfortunately, budget cuts, red tape, and not having the full name of the person for whom the information is being requested means there’d be a long wait for requests to be processed. It could be more than a month before they get back to us.”

  “Oh.” Skye felt frustrated by yet another roadblock; then she had a thought. “Hey, I ran into Simon at the ATM this morning and he mentioned he thought Suzette looked familiar.”

  “So?”

  “So, if we ask him to think about it some more, maybe he’ll remember something.”

  “I won’t hold my breath, but it’s worth a try,” Wally agreed. “I’ll have Martinez run a picture of Suzette over to Reid tomorrow.”

  “Good.” Skye opened her mouth to tell Wally that Simon would be dog sitting for her, but decided later might be a better time to reveal that piece of information. Sometime when Wally was more relaxed.

  “We need to get Owen’s DNA,” Wally said after a few minutes of silence. “But I don’t want to come right out and ask for it.”

  “Because, as you said earlier, you don’t want him to know he’s a suspect?”

  “Right.” Wally twitched his shoulders as if his neck were stiff.

  “I really would like to be able to look him in the eye again, without having that nagging doubt in my mind.”

  Wally passed a slow-moving combine, waving to the driver. “Too bad there’s no legal way to get his blood without his knowledge.”

  “Yeah.” Skye stroked Toby, letting her thoughts wander ; then, as Wally guided the T-bird into the self-storage lot, she blurted, “The Red Cross.”

  “What?”

  “The Farm Bureau had a blood drive this past Monday, and Owen always gives.” Skye twisted to look at Wally. “That means, if you can get his blood from them, you don’t need a warrant for it. Once he donates it, he gives up all expectations of privacy.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw it on some TV program,” Skye admitted. “But surely the show’s writers would have to get something like that correct.”

  “Maybe.” Wally sounded unconvinced. “I’ll check with the city attorney.”

  While Wally made that call, Skye examined the storage facility. It looked a little like a fifties-style motel, albeit a windowless one surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence with razor wire strung across the top.

  There appeared to be two types of spaces available: one the size of a single-car garage, and the other twice that large. The siding was a dirty tan, and paint was peeling off the steel doors.

  Skye and Wally were parked in front of one of the larger units. She couldn’t see any other vehicles, and the facility was silent except for the sound of Wally’s voice as he talked into his cell phone.

  Several minutes later, he clicked the sleek black device shut, exited the T-bird, and opened Skye’s door. “Ready to investigate?”

  “Yep.” Skye wiggled out of the low-slung sports car, conscious of her skirt riding up, and asked, “Is it okay to bring Toby inside?”

  “Sure. There’s nothing in there he can hurt.”

  Once Wally took the key from his pocket and opened the lock, Skye preceded him into the dark interior. It had an eerie, deserted vibe, and she was glad when Wally reached past her and pulled a chain attached to a bare bulb, flooding the room with light.

  Now she could see the labyrinth of cardboard boxes surrounding her. The entire unit was stacked with bins, crates, and cartons as far as Skye could see. A narrow path wound through the maze, but Skye could make out only a few feet in front of her.

  “Where do we start?” Skye tried to keep her voice even, and not reveal how overwhelmed she felt by the sheer volume of records.

  “Let’s do a walk-through.” Wally’s tone was grim. “Maybe there’s some organizational method that isn’t obvious at first glance.”

  “Okay.” As Skye navigated the warren, she read the words hand lettered in black on the sides of the boxes. “It looks like they’re arranged by year.”

  “That’s something.” Arriving at the back of the space, Wally pulled the chain on another bare bulb, then motioned to a long table against the rear wall. “We can sort through the cartons on this.”

  “Sure.” Skye gripped Toby’s leash; he’d begun trying to tug her forward. “I wonder if anyone’s been here since they dropped off the records.”

  “I doubt—” Wally br
oke off and pointed to the floor, then said softly, “I guess they have, and I’d say fairly recently, too.”

  A fresh trail of footprints disturbed the thick layer of dust that covered the floor. The prints led away from where Skye and Wally now stood and into an aisle they hadn’t been down yet.

  Skye started to reply, but Wally put a finger to his lips and motioned her behind him. He unsnapped his holster and rested his hand on the butt of his gun, then moved forward.

  Skye picked up Toby and followed. The cartons near the door bore dates beginning in the 1990s, and as she moved down the second aisle, she saw boxes marked 1980, then 1979.

  Wally stopped abruptly. He stood motionless, but everything about his stance screamed that he was on high alert. Suddenly, he tilted his head, and at the sound of a door easing closed, he took off running.

  Toby whined and tried to leap from Skye’s arms to follow him, but she tightened her grasp and clamped a hand over the canine’s muzzle. Should she go after Wally? No, better to stay here and not distract him from his pursuit. It wasn’t as if she could run fast enough to catch anyone, not while wearing high heels, a dress, and carrying a dog.

  Skye crept forward a few steps and saw papers scattered across the floor. Taking out a bag she’d tucked into her pocket to dispose of any future doggy deposits, she slipped it over her right hand. Using one plastic-covered finger, she fanned out the sheets and glanced through them. They were records concerning a twenty-seven-year-old bicycle theft from the park’s bike rack.

  Next, she righted a carton that was lying on its side and saw black Magic Marker numbers scrawled across the edge. She squinted until they came into focus—1978. Underneath the year, MAY—JUNE was written in smaller print.

  Glancing around, she noticed an empty file folder crumpled in a corner. She gingerly moved it toward her with the toe of her shoe. A white label across the top read PAULETTE NEAL.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Hey Good Lookin’”

  The windows along Scumble River’s main drag were dark when Skye and Wally drove back to town. Wally hadn’t been able to catch the intruder, who had presumably stolen the contents of the Neal folder, so he’d had to call in a county crime technician to dust the empty box and the other files for fingerprints. By the time the tech arrived, did her job, and departed, it was close to eight thirty, which meant Skye and Wally didn’t get home until after nine.

  Skye’s stomach growled as Wally turned the T-bird into the church parking lot. Both she and Toby were starving, and she’d bet Bingo would be yowling for food as well.

  “You sure you don’t want to get a bite at McDonald’s ?” Wally asked, opening her door.

  “No.” Skye slid behind the wheel of her Bel Air and deposited Toby in the backseat. “I have a hungry cat waiting for me.”

  “Okay.” Wally kissed her cheek. “Then I’ll stay here and work on the case awhile.” He jutted his chin toward the police station behind him. “Although I’m not sure where to start.”

  “Yeah.” Skye sighed in sympathy. “I imagine it’s hard to figure out who had a motive to kill Suzette when you have so little information about the real person behind the public persona.”

  “Exactly.” Wally shoved a hand through his hair. “We’re not aware of any Scumble Riverites with whom she had more than casual contact, although we’re still looking. And so far, all of the owners of black pickups we’ve located have alibis. We’ve interviewed the Country Roads employees and the laborers who were on the theater construction site, but everyone says she kept to herself.”

  “Even Kallista Taylor and Flint James?” Skye asked, then said, “Dang it! I never did tell you the negative things they said about her Saturday night, did I?” Skye described the scene in the trailer, ending with, “So both Flint and Kallista were jealous of Suzette. For Flint it was professional; for Kallista it was personal.”

  “No one mentioned a word about that yesterday or today in any of the interviews we conducted with the Country Roads people.”

  “Of course not.” Skye crossed her arms. “Who would volunteer that kind of information about the star or the boss’s wife?”

  “Nobody who wanted to keep his or her job.” Wally’s eyes were cold. “But tomorrow will begin round two of the interrogations, and this time I have something specific to ask them. Especially since neither of them has an alibi.”

  “I am so sorry I forgot to tell you about that conversation. I didn’t realize they were two of the three Country Roads people who couldn’t account for their time.” Skye felt she had let Wally down. “What kind of psych consultant am I if I don’t remember the important details ?”

  “You overheard Flint and Kallista before the murder, when what they said wasn’t that important. Then you had a nasty shock when you found Suzette in that horrific condition.” Wally leaned into the Chevy and embraced Skye. “No one could expect you to be at the top of your game after seeing that.” He rested his cheek against hers. “Besides, it’s only been two days.”

  “Thanks for understanding and not being mad.” She hugged him back. “But I promise I’m over it now. Simon is going to dog sit for me, and I’ll concentrate on helping you find the killer.”

  Skye held her breath, wondering how Wally would take the news of Simon’s involvement.

  “Why would you ask your ex-boyfriend for help?” Wally’s voice was soft, but it had an edge that made Skye flinch.

  “Actually, Simon volunteered.” Skye hastily explained the conversation they’d had at the ATM. “I have a feeling he might end up adopting Toby if they get along and no one else claims him.”

  “Yeah.” Wally nodded thoughtfully. “I can see that.” After a few seconds his face relaxed. “Reid will need the companionship.” Wally kissed her, then straightened. “Because he’s not getting you back.”

  “That was my thinking. Do you want me to help with the reinterviews tomorrow after I get out of school?”

  “Definitely.” Wally’s smile was predatory. “I’m going to save the two major players for you. And instead of bringing Kallista and Flint into the PD, we’ll approach them in their home territory, where they’re apt to be less careful of what they say.”

  “I can’t wait.” Skye started to close the Chevy’s door, but stopped. “Hey—how about Darleen? Were you able to trace that number I gave you?”

  “Just like I figured, it came back to a disposable cell.” Wally crossed his arms. “And no one answered when I dialed it, not even voice mail.”

  “Guess whoever called isn’t in much of a hurry for the money.” Skye studied Wally’s tired expression before asking, “Have you decided if you’re going to pay her or not?”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Wally leaned a hip against the car. “But if you want me to, I will, because getting to marry you is worth more than a measly quarter million dollars.”

  “That’s such a sweet thing to say.” Skye beamed at him. “But I’d never encourage you to give in to blackmail.”

  “I’ll try calling that number again tomorrow.” Wally’s shoulders hunched forward. “Maybe we can work something out.”

  “Well, whatever you decide, I’m behind you a hundred percent.” Skye started the Bel Air’s engine. “If we don’t get a letter from Darleen supporting your request for an annulment, it may take a bit longer, but it will still come through and we’ll still get married.”

  Skye had been praying it wouldn’t come to this. She’d been sure they’d find the name of Suzette’s brother last night in the police file. But now that the file was officially stolen, that hope had vanished.

  Noreen had said only two people currently at Scumble River High were at the school when Quentin Neal worked there—Homer Knapik and Pru Cormorant, the English teacher. Voluntarily spending time in Homer’s company was bad enough, but questioning Pru ventured into the realm of appalling.

  Pru hadn’t liked Skye when she had her as a student, and she disliked her even more as a colleague. The animosity was
mutual, especially since last month when the English teacher had tried to shut down the newly opened bookstore in town, claiming the romances it sold were pornography and the horror novels were satanic.

  Skye had been putting off the discussions with Homer and Pru all day. But by the afternoon, when the elementary school student she had scheduled for testing was absent, Skye had run out of excuses and reluctantly headed over to the high school. Pru wouldn’t be available until eighth hour, which was her second planning period, but Homer was almost always free.

  The session with Homer went remarkably well. Having successfully turned over the administrative problems pertaining to Woodrow Buckingham’s integration to the special education coordinator, the principal was in a mellow mood.

  Homer answered Skye’s questions with only a few snide remarks, but he could add nothing to what Noreen had already reported. Homer’s sole recollection of Quentin Neal was that he had done his job and kept out of trouble.

  When the seventh-hour bell rang, Skye waited for the kids to leave before approaching Pru’s room.

  “Hi, Pru,” Skye called from the open doorway. “Got a minute?”

  The English teacher was facing a six-foot-high double-door metal cabinet. At Skye’s greeting, she swung around and scowled. “Did Mrs. Cook complain about that note I sent home yesterday?”

  “What note?” Skye asked cautiously. Homer usually sent her to deal with Pru when the teacher ticked off a parent, but he hadn’t mentioned a problem.

  “The one I wrote that said, ‘Your son sets low standards and then consistently fails to achieve them.’ ”

  “Holy smokes!” Skye blurted out. “What possessed you to send a parent something like that?”

  “I know you think I’m crazy,” Pru snapped, “but I’ve just been in a very bad mood for the past twenty-odd years.”

  “Of course I don’t think you’re crazy,” Skye soothed, thinking, Mean as a polecat, but not crazy.

  “Fine.” Pru crossed her arms. “Which of your little darlings needs special treatment this time?”