Skye grabbed a book, and set out to find a place to sit and read while her hair dried. The old Bruefeld Mansion, now the Scumble River Spa, had recently been remodeled and enlarged by the new owners. The two wings of the main house had been converted into guest accommodations, the central building into treatment rooms and common areas, and the attic into staff lodgings. The basement had been renovated to provide an area for the mud baths and a private suite of rooms had been added to the first floor in the rear as living quarters for Margot Avanti and her husband, Creighton Burnett. In addition, VIP cottages, a gym with an indoor pool, and a hair salon had been built next to the mansion.
With the vast space available, and the limited number of guests, Skye was sure she could find a quiet spot to be alone. She wanted to gather her thoughts before word spread of her performance this afternoon. Once everyone found out what a fool she had made of herself, hopping to the rescue like Crusader Rabbit, she wouldn’t find another peaceful moment for a long, long time.
During her stroll around the ground floor, Skye noted that the turret she had observed on the outside was just for decoration, although there was evidence of a recently removed circular stairway. Next, she poked her head into the dining room, now cleared of food. She briefly considered sitting in the library, but the walnut paneling, hand-carved detailing, and towering bookcases were more intimidating than relaxing.
The central courtyard, paved with cobblestones around an outdoor swimming pool, was appealing but the pool was closed for the season, and the patio furniture was stacked under plastic tarps.
Finally, like Goldilocks she found a spot that was just right. As soon as Skye entered the solarium, she felt herself relax. Sun streaming through three walls of floor-to-ceiling windows made the room toasty warm. To the left was a pleasant view of trees leading down to the river, to the right the magnificent driveway swept from the house into the woods, and straight ahead were several acres of rolling lawn interrupted only by … what in the heck was that dark square ruining the perfect carpet of grass?
Skye frowned and moved closer to the center window. Straining her eyes, she finally figured out what she was staring at: the Bruefeld family graveyard. Come to think of it, she had heard that the new owners had wanted to move the coffins to the town cemetery, but due to some law or maybe some restriction in the deed, they hadn’t been able to, and the family burial ground remained where it had been for a hundred or so years.
She took one more look, then curled up on the floral cushions of a white wicker rocker. Opening her book, she stared at the printed pages for several minutes, sighed, and set the novel aside. Closing her eyes, she let her mind wander, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when she had been talked into spending her Thanksgiving weekend at the spa. It had all started on Halloween, when one of the spa owners had come to Skye for help …
Skye stood just outside the rear entrance of Scumble River Elementary School and watched the students parade around the perimeter of the parking lot dressed in their Halloween costumes, which ran the gamut from beautiful princesses to ghastly monsters.
As the school psychologist, Skye didn’t have much to do on a day like Halloween. She couldn’t test any students or observe in any classroom, and no one wanted to have a meeting. She’d spent the morning writing reports, but had decided to take a break from the paperwork and attend the afternoon Halloween procession.
Normally in Illinois, mothers made sure Halloween costumes were loose enough to wear over snowsuits, but this year the weather had surprised them. The sun glared down on the concrete steps and asphalt drive as if it were July. Skye huddled in the little bit of shade the overhang provided. She had dressed in khaki slacks and a short sleeve peach polo shirt, prepared for the non-air-conditioned school, but the sweat still dripped off her face and pooled under her arms.
As the last of the children completed the circuit, the teachers marched their students into their classrooms for refreshments and games. Skye was considering going to the special education classroom to see if she could help with their party when the PA system squawked, “Ms. Denison, please come to the office.”
Skye felt a frisson of unease at the announcement. It was exceedingly unusual for her to be summoned via PA at the grade school. While the high school principal called for Skye’s assistance at the first sign of an angry parent or sticky situation, the elementary school principal went to the other extreme, handling everything but the most severe matters on her own. Skye hurried toward the front of the school, a line of worry appearing between her eyebrows as she wondered What could have happened.
When she entered the school office, she saw a stunningly beautiful woman who seemed somewhat familiar standing at the counter.
Skye nodded to her, then said to Fern Otte, the school secretary, “You sent for me?”
“Yes.” Fern clipped off the word, giving it an impatient edge. She was a tiny woman whose affinity for brown clothing enhanced her resemblance to a wren.
Skye wasn’t sure what had put the ticked-off look in Fern’s small black eyes, but she hoped it wasn’t something she had done. Getting on Fern’s bad side was a career-limiting move. Behind the secretary’s mild façade, she ran the office as if it were the Department of Motor Vehicles—everyone took a number, waited their turns, and kept their mouths shut.
The silence lengthened until finally Fern said, “This”—the pause was almost imperceptible—”person insisted I summon you, and refused to give a reason.”
“Oh.” Skye looked toward the woman causing Fern’s pique; Skye had to be careful not to appear to be taking her side against the secretary. “I’m Skye Denison. You wanted to see me?”
“I’m Margot Avanti. Is there somewhere we could speak in private?”
“Is this about one of our students?”
Margot ignored Skye’s question and restated her request, “I’d prefer to speak to you alone.”
Skye gave Fern an apologetic look, and said to Margot, “We can use my office, but I’m afraid it isn’t air-conditioned.”
“Fine.”
Skye led the way to her office. The woman followed, the only sound the click of her high heels on the worn gray linoleum.
In order to break the silence, Skye attempted a small joke. “I have to apologize for my office. I’m sure you’ve heard about the ‘No Child Left Behind’ law, but what we really need is a ‘No School Psychologist Stuck in a Broom Closet’ law.”
The woman looked at Skye blankly, then carefully studied the interior of Skye’s office before stepping inside. The room contained a small desk and two metal folding chairs. It had started life as a storage room for the cafeteria, and a faint odor of sour milk still permeated the air.
Once they sat down, Skye asked, “What can I do for you, Ms. Avanti?” as she tried to edge her scat back a little. With her knees nearly touching the other woman’s, Skye felt as if they were about to play patty cake.
“Please call me Margot.” Despite the heat, the woman’s ash blond hair remained perfectly straight, her makeup was intact, and her Yves Saint Laurent blouse and skirt were crisp and unwrinkled.
“Margot it is.” Skye had a strong sense of having seen the woman previously. “We haven’t met before, have we?”
“No, Ms. Denison, I don’t think so, but”—Margot’s smile was smug—”you’ve probably seen me in magazines or on TV. I was one of the top American models before I retired a few years ago.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Now Skye recalled seeing Margot in an ad for very expensive jewelry. She had been wearing diamonds and not much more. “By the way, please call me Skye.”
“That’s a beautiful name.” Margot tilted her head. “Do you have sisters called Sun, Moon, and Cloud?”
“No, just a brother named Vince.” Skye studied Margot, trying to decide if the woman was mocking her. Margot’s face had an eerie perfection that showed little emotion, making her as hard to read as a game show host.
Finally, Skye gave up trying to guess
the woman’s intentions, and asked again, “Why did you want to see me?”
Margot reached into her purse and handed Skye a brochure. “My husband and I are opening a beauty spa and resort on the old Bruefeld Estate.”
“Yes, I’ve heard a spa was coming to town. How did you happen to choose Scumble River?”
Skye’s question was one that most of the townspeople were asking. Opening a spa in the rural community seemed as silly to them as trying to farm a few acres in the center of Chicago’s Grant Park. Scumble River had a population of three thousand, and was located in the middle of the Illinois prairie. There was little to recommend it to the wealthy clientele most spas attracted.
“My husband, Dr. Creighton Burnett, discovered that the mud of the Scumble River, as it goes past the Bruefeld Estate, is rich in sulfur, iron, manganese, and nickel, and has a salt rate of twenty-seven percent. When our own secret ingredient is added, it is the perfect formula for smoothing and softening the skin and making it look young again.”
“I see. But do you really think women will travel to the middle of nowhere just for some mud?”
“Not just some mud, Miracle Mud. Wouldn’t you go out of your way to find the Fountain of Youth?”
Skye shrugged. “I guess some people might.” She certainly wanted to look nice, and wasn’t opposed to using moisturizers and makeup to shave off a few years, but flying hundreds or thousands of miles to bathe in mud was beyond what she was willing to do to look young. “But—”
Margot cut off Skye. “I can’t understand why you people aren’t thrilled to have a new business.” The spa owner’s sapphire eyes glinted with impatience, but her expression remained unchanged, as if she were incapable of frowning. “We’re creating jobs, bringing in people who will spend money here—why is everyone so damned negative?”
Margot’s attack surprised Skye, and she tried to explain, realizing she hadn’t been as diplomatic as she might have been. “I can’t speak for the whole town, but I’m sure their skepticism comes from a lack of understanding, and maybe doubts that people will come here for a stay, rather than anything against you or your business.”
“You’re probably right.” Margot did an abrupt about-face, her shoulders drooping. “And I can see how you people might think that way, but we’re going to succeed. My husband and I have put all our money into this project. Nothing and no one will stand in our way.”
“I’m sure no one will intentionally try and make the spa fail, no matter what the town gossips say about it.” Skye leaned slightly forward and patted Margot’s hand, wondering why the woman was telling her all this.
“That’s just it. Someone is trying to sabotage us. That’s why I’ve come to you.”
“Me? Why?”
Margot flipped back the oval clasp on her crocodile purse, reached in, and thrust a sheaf of newspaper clippings into Skye’s hands. “Because you’re the Scumble River Nancy Drew. Everyone tells me you’re the only one who can solve the mystery.”
“People exaggerate.” Skye noticed the spa owner’s purse was a Dolce & Gabbana, which probably retailed for five hundred a pop. Margot didn’t need Skye’s help; she could afford to hire the best private investigator in Chicago. “I’m a school psychologist, not a detective. You should be talking to the police.”
“I have. They took my information, came out to the spa, and looked around. They said there wasn’t much they could do. They only have one or two officers on duty at any one time, and I need someone twenty-four/seven if I want to catch the vandal.”
“Then you need to hire a security firm, not me.” Skye tried to avoid looking into the woman’s desperate eyes.
“I did hire a firm. They’ve been on my payroll an entire month and haven’t caught anyone.” Margot pointed to the clippings in Skye’s hand. “All these stories are about you solving murders no one else could figure out.”
“The newspaper overstated my contribution.” Skye flipped through the articles Margot had handed her, wishing she could convince Kathryn Steele, the owner of the Scumble River Star, to quit doing stories on her and go back to putting people who built houses from Popsicle sticks on the front page.
“According to the latest piece, you signed on as a consultant for the local police.”
“True,” Skye admitted. “But I only help as a psychological consultant, not as a detective.”
“That’s what we need. Someone who can talk to people and figure out why they’re doing this to us,” Margot pleaded. “It’s nothing big, but it’s all extremely annoying. Outside, they’ve dug holes everywhere. We’ve had to replace so much sod I feel like we should buy it by the truck-load. Inside, they’ve ripped open the plaster. Tools and personal items have gone missing, doors are jammed, and at night we hear the most ungodly noises. I’m afraid if this continues once we have paying guests, the spa will fail.” Margot pulled a checkbook from her open purse. “Name your fee.”
Skye shook her head. “I’m not a licensed private detective. I can’t accept money. Besides, I already have a job. I just don’t have time to investigate. You need someone who could move in and observe everyone around the clock.”
“Please, just think about it.” Margot reached into her bag once more, this time producing a business card and brochure. “If we haven’t found the culprit in the next three weeks, please come for the ‘dry run’ opening. We’re offering the local women four nights at half price over the long Thanksgiving weekend, so it wouldn’t look odd that you were there. Of course, your stay and a friend’s would be free of charge, with all the spa treatments and amenities included.”
Skye thanked the woman, and said she’d consider it. She walked Margot Avanti to the front door and waved goodbye. As she made her way back to her cramped, hot office, Skye was tempted by the spa owner’s offer, then shook her head. Nothing was ever free.
CHAPTER 2
Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beholder
“You what?” Trixie Frayne squealed, popping up from her chair and bouncing on her heels as if she were Tigger. She and Skye were in Skye’s office at the high school. “Are you out of your mind? Why would you turn down a free vacation at a spa?”
Skye sat behind her desk with her feet propped on the open lower drawer, watching her friend. Trixie was the high school librarian. She also coached the cheerleading squad and cosponsored the school newspaper with Skye. Trixie’s energy level made a Chihuahua look sedate.
“You can still call and change your mind, right?” Trixie gazed pleadingly at Skye.
“Sure, unless they caught the vandal last night. But why should I?”
“Because,” Trixie drawled the word, making it several syllables, “you and I could catch whoever’s messing around the first day, then we’d have the rest of the weekend to be pampered.”
“What makes you think we could catch this trespasser so fast?”
“Didn’t you see today’s Star?” Trixie demanded.
“No. You may get yours delivered to the school library, but I need to wait until I get home. Besides, what does the town newspaper have to do with capturing the vandal?”
“There was an article about the new spa on the front page. It said that there’s a hidden treasure on the Bruefeld Estate, and the house and grounds are cursed.”
“You’re kidding.” Skye fought her curiosity.
“Nope. It said that the property was originally owned by a millionaire, who, when he lost everything in the crash of 1929, killed his wife, then committed suicide. The newspaper even dug up a story that before the crash, the wife hid a million dollars in jewels that have never been found. The estate’s next several owners also either lost money or their lives, and the property has been unoccupied for the past thirty years.”
“Interesting.”
“So, what do you think?” Trixie asked. “Is it jinxed?”
“I doubt it. The ‘curse’ sounds like something the newspaper dreamed up. I’ve never heard of it, and considering that several of my aunts are the queens
of gossip around here, I’m sure I would have.” Skye considered the estate’s history. “My guess is that something that old, that big, and that costly is bound to have an out-of-the-ordinary history. I’m sure the paper just didn’t report the happy families that lived there.”
Trixie shrugged. “Anyway, I’ll bet the vandal that’s been bugging the new owners is someone who already knew about the treasure and is looking for it. The holes in the ground and in the walls are obviously a result of someone searching for the jewelry, and the other vandalism is to delay the spa from opening to give the person more time to find the treasure.”
“You know,” Skye scratched her chin, “that’s not a bad guess.”
“It means we could set a trap for him or her, and catch ‘em in the act without breaking a sweat.”
“Maybe”—Skye’s tone was stubborn—”but I’m still not going to take Margot up on her offer.”
“Why not?”
“First, Mom would kill me if I missed Thanksgiving with the family.”
Trixie finally sat down. “You don’t have to. The spa is five minutes from your mom’s house. I’ll drive you myself.”
“Second, this will be the first holiday I’ll celebrate with Wally since we’ve been dating.” She’d started dating Wally Boyd a little more than a month ago, after breaking up with her longtime boyfriend Simon Reid, whom she had caught cheating on her at the end of the summer.
“Again, the spa is five minutes away. You can see your precious police chief.” Trixie ran her fingers through her short faun-colored hair. “What’ll that take, a couple of hours? It’s not as if you two are sleeping together.”
Skye scowled at Trixie, got up to close her office door, and sat back down. Even though it was nearly impossible in a town of three thousand people, half of whom Skye was related to, she was trying to keep her love life private. “How do you know we’re not having wild monkey sex?” She and Wally’d had a thing for each other for years, but only recently had all the circumstances finally been right for them to date. Skye was determined to take it slow and not jump into bed before they had established a solid relationship.
Murder of a Botoxed Blonde Page 2
