“Because neither of you has that glow really great sex gives you. So, either he’s no good in bed, which I would have trouble believing because that man is so hot he sizzles, or you’re making the poor thing wait and prove his devotion to you.”
Skye chose to ignore her friend’s baiting and went back to her original conversation. “Third, I really don’t feel like playing Sherlock Holmes. This has been a tough fall for me, and I need a break.”
Trixie shrieked, “What could be more relaxing than a spa, for heaven’s sake?”
“Which brings me to the most important reason; I don’t want to do it. Spas freak me out.” Skye indicated her ample curves. “Why would I want to go to a place where you pay someone to criticize your weight, your hair, your skin, etc.? My mom does that for free.”
Trixie choked on the mini Snickers bar she had just shoved into her mouth. After she took a sip of her Coke, and stopped coughing, she said, “No one at the spa will be negative to you about your looks, unless you ask them to be. Just don’t select the fitness evaluation or sign up for time with the personal trainer.” Trixie grabbed another Halloween candy bar from the dish on Skye’s desk. “Sign up for massages, and facials, and manicures, and pedicures instead.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t mind people seeing you naked.” Skye glowered at her friend, who was still stuffing her face with chocolate. “You’ve been a size four since I met you our freshman year in high school. You don’t exercise, you eat your weight in snack food, and you never gain an ounce. The spa people would love you.”
Trixie got out of her chair, walked around the desk, and bent down to hug Skye. “No one will say anything about you, except to comment on your amazing eyes, your fantastic hair, and your beautiful skin.” Trixie straightened and curled both hands into fists. “And if they do say anything that upsets you, I’ll take care of them.”
Skye swallowed, touched by Trixie’s fierce loyalty. “I know you would, but that’s not the point. I still—”
“Please, please, please, say we can go. Together we can help the new owners, plus I need you! If I’m home for Thanksgiving, I’ll have to cook for Owen’s entire family—all forty-eight of them. I’ll have to clean the house from top to bottom, and Owen and I will get into a big fight because he’ll be too busy with the farm to help me. And I swore the last time it was our turn to host the holiday, if his uncle and aunt and their five bratty kids stayed with us, I was divorcing Owen.” Trixie hugged Skye. “Please save my marriage.”
Skye had never noticed how little time there was between Halloween and Thanksgiving, until she woke the morning of Wednesday, November 26, and realized that the Bruefeld Mansion vandal was still at large, and Trixie had not been talked out of spending the holiday weekend at the spa with Skye, acting as Scumble River’s newest Charlie’s Angels.
Groaning, Skye pulled the covers up over her head. She’d been blocking this day from her thoughts for the past couple of weeks, hoping the spa owners would catch their vandal, call, and tell her they had no need for her services.
Unhappily, Margot hadn’t phoned, and Trixie hadn’t suddenly decided she’d rather be with her relatives for Thanksgiving. Willing or not, Skye was spending her long holiday weekend at the Scumble River Spa. On a positive note, she’d always wanted to stay in a cursed mansion with a hidden treasure. Heck, maybe she’d even meet a prince, or a duke, or at the very least an earl.
Yes, that was the attitude to take. This was an adventure. She’d just need to be firm about the spa treatments, and decline any that required nudity or stepping on a scale. She’d spend her time at the indoor swimming pool, and show up only for fun activities like facials and pedicures.
As she often told her students—occasionally, everyone had to do things they didn’t want to. How you handled those situations was what defined you as a person.
Which meant, she’d better get moving. She kicked the bedclothes off and sat up. A brief phone call to her brother secured his services as a pet sitter for her cat Bingo, and after a quick shower, she ran some errands and packed. Skye was lugging her suitcase out the front door when Trixie’s car roared into the driveway. It was exactly eleven forty-five, check-in was at noon, and Trixie had made it clear that she didn’t want to miss a moment of her free weekend.
Skye was still fretting over what she had packed when she climbed into the passenger seat. Maybe she should have bought some of those fancy exercise outfits she’d seen in Glamour.
Trixie interrupted Skye’s musings by waving a sheaf of newsprint in her face. “Did you see this week’s paper?”
“No.” Skye finished buckling her seatbelt, then grabbed the Scumble River Star from her friend’s hand. “What’s up now?”
Trixie flung the car in gear and stepped on the gas. She had sold her prized Mustang convertible to pay off a debt, and now owned a ten-year-old Honda Civic, but she still drove as if she were racing on the NASCAR circuit.
Skye shut her eyes and prayed as Trixie backed out of the driveway without even glancing in the rearview mirror.
“Quit cowering. You know I’m a good driver.” Trixie slowed to a modest sixty, then answered Skye’s question. “Another article on the Bruefeld Mansion being cursed and the hidden jewels.”
“Shit! Margot told me she spoke to the editor after the first piece was published and explained that if there was a treasure they would have found it during the renovations, and asked her to stop publishing those kinds of articles.”
“What did Kathryn say to that?”
“She said that a cursed mansion and a hidden treasure were too good a story to pass up.” Skye shook her head. “And until Margot could prove there wasn’t a curse or a treasure, she was pursuing the story.”
“Well, if nothing else, Kathryn is true to her word. This time there’s even a riddle that’s supposed to be a clue to the treasure’s location.”
“Great. If your theory is right and the vandal is really a treasure hunter, that’ll make him or her even more determined to find the jewels before someone else does.”
“Read the article. Maybe it’ll give you an idea of where we should lay our trap.”
Skye studied the story until Trixie pulled through massive iron gates and onto a wide paved driveway.
“Is this it?” Skye folded the paper and put it in her purse to examine later.
“According to the sign, the spa’s straight ahead.”
Skye had never seen the Bruefeld Estate. It was located south of town along the Scumble River and had been fenced off since the last owner had declared bankruptcy when Skye was still a toddler. Lining the lane was a row of massive oak trees. As they rounded the first curve, a huge Norman-style stone mansion appeared as if hovering above the ground on a magic carpet.
Once they grew closer, Skye could see that the mansion was actually situated on a small rise overlooking the river. Surrounding it were half a dozen cottages and several larger detached structures, also made of stone and slate with copper turret-style roofs, reminding her that the brochure Margot had given her had mentioned private VIP accommodations for those who wanted a more luxurious stay.
Traces of the recent reconstruction were still evident and several men seemed to be hurriedly cleaning up around the area. Skye shaded her eyes and peered intently at the smallest figure. After a moment she recognized him as Elvis Doozier, from a rather stunted branch of one of Scumble River’s odder family trees.
A year or so ago Elvis had gotten into some trouble at the high school and Skye had reviewed his file. His IQ fell between seventy and eighty, which meant he didn’t meet the criteria for a learning disability—students had to have average or above average intelligence to be considered LD. Unfortunately, he also didn’t qualify for services in the mentally impaired category—there the IQ had to fall below sixty-nine. Thus he didn’t qualify for any special services, but at the same time there was no way he could keep up with average students.
Elvis was one of the school system’s failure
s. Guilt washed over Skye as she watched him hurrying to keep up with the other men. She’d heard he’d dropped out of school on his sixteenth birthday, and she’d meant to talk to his guardian about finding a vocational training program for him, but had never gotten around to it. Seeing him as a part of the construction crew made her hope that he had found a good job without her help.
As the road straightened and passed through a second set of gates, she lost sight of the workers. Once past those gates, they found themselves on a circular drive in front of an impressive set of granite stairs leading to the front entrance.
Skye hadn’t known what to expect, never having been to a spa before, but the dozen or so women holding protest signs and marching in a circle at the bottom of the steps was not on her list of guesses.
Trixie slammed on the brakes and squealed to a stop inches from one of the protestors, who had apparently decided it would be a good idea to throw herself into the automobile’s path.
Skye screamed, flung open her door, and jumped out of the car. “Are you okay?”
The woman was tall, athletically built, and her face was free of makeup. Brown hair hung straight down her back, brushing the waistband of her jeans as she turned her head. Hazel eyes examined Skye and clearly found her wanting. “We’re closing down this temple of false beauty. Turn around and go home.”
Trixie got out of the car at the same time that a second protestor, who wore her hair in a crew cut, joined the first. Trixie was barely five-foot-two, but she walked up to the group, all of whom towered over her like redwood trees over a shrub, put her hands on her hips, and demanded, “What’s the problem?”
The brunette answered, “Real women don’t need artificial beauty. Support the cause, sister. Turn around and go home.”
While Trixie was arguing with the women, Skye read the various protest signs.
PAINT IS FOR HOUSES, NOT FACES.
REAL WOMEN HAVE CURVES.
ONLY BARBIE SHOULD LOOK LIKE BARBIE.
STOP DYEING TO BE BEAUTIFUL.
WE HAVE ENOUGH YOUTH, HOW ABOUT A FOUNTAIN OF SMART?
Trixie narrowed her eyes. “No one’s getting in the way of my free weekend.”
Crew Cut stepped into Trixie’s personal space and snarled, “Women like you make me sick. Everything is me, me, me. You never think of the greater good.”
“How can you say that? You don’t know anything about her.” Skye moved next to her friend and glared at the protestor. “Trixie is the most generous person on Earth.”
The brunette shot the crew-cut woman a look, and then said in a conciliatory tone, “Our organization, Real Women, is trying to stop the disturbing trend of artificial beauty infiltrating every walk of life. It was bad enough when movie stars and models were having their flesh carved, starving themselves, and hiring trainers as if they were poodles competing in some dog show, but now this movement is creeping into Middle America. And we aim to stop it.”
“Fine.” Trixie’s expression was stubborn. “I promise we’re not having any surgery, we are certainly not going on any stupid diet, and the last person who tried to train me was my mother—the issue was the potty versus diapers. All I want is a few days of peace and quiet with the occasional massage, facial, manicure, and pedicure.”
Crew Cut poked her finger into Trixie’s shoulder. “The point is your money supports the idea that it’s okay for these people to tell women they aren’t beautiful unless they look like twelve-year-old boys.”
“But it’s not my money.” Trixie stamped her foot. “They’re giving us this weekend free.”
Both Crew Cut and the brunette shook their heads. The latter said, “That doesn’t matter. Your being here gives the wrong message.”
Trixie’s firm jaw was set. “Look, the average woman would rather have beauty than brains because the average man can see better than he can think. Do you really think a few cardboard signs will stop anyone from staying at this spa if they think it will make them look younger and more attractive?”
Crew Cut’s gaze was unbending. “Maybe we won’t be able to stop everyone, but we sure can stop you.”
Skye was torn. In some ways, she agreed with the protestors. And heaven knows she would be happy to turn around and go home. But these women seemed to think their rights superseded Trixie’s rights, and Skye wasn’t about to put up with that. She was sick of people who thought freedom of speech meant freedom to harass anyone who didn’t think the same way they did.
She took Trixie’s arm and attempted to walk around the women, but the protestors formed a line, blocking the spa’s entrance. They were at a standoff when another car drove into sight. Squinting into the sunlight, Skye frowned and dropped Trixie’s arm. The approaching white Oldsmobile looked mighty familiar.
Trixie took one look at Skye’s face, muttered something about getting their purses, and hightailed it back to the Civic.
Skye barely noticed her friend’s defection as the Oldsmobile’s driver got out, flung up her arms, and yelled, “Surprise!”
CHAPTER 3
Chewing the Low Fat
“What are you doing here?” Skye asked.
Before she answered, Skye’s mother reached up and tucked a stray curl behind Skye’s ear, pulled Skye’s sweater down, and brushed a streak of dust off her jeans. May’s own short salt-and-pepper hair never had a strand out of place, and her crisp twill pants and matching jacket looked as if they had just left the ironing board. “When Trixie mentioned you two were coming to the spa for Thanksgiving,” May said, “we decided it was the perfect chance to surprise you with one of those girls only weekends they’re always talking about on the TV.”
Skye stowed away for later examination the fact that her mom and best friend had schemed together behind her back, and asked, “What about Thanksgiving dinner?” May had hosted the relatives from both sides of the family for as long as Skye could remember.
“Aunt Kitty agreed to have it this year. I sent our regrets.”
“But there’s no reason to miss it. We’re nearly as close here as we are at home. Besides, I already invited Wally.”
“So he said.” May was a dispatcher for the Scumble River Police Department, and Wally was the chief of police. “That’s another reason I decided this was a good year for you to skip. That way, next year, when you’re back together with Simon, it’ll be less awkward.” May didn’t approve of Skye dating Wally, who was older, divorced, and not Catholic.
“Mother!” Emerald green eyes that matched May’s own blazed. “I am going to the family Thanksgiving dinner. I am bringing Wally. I am not getting back together with Simon.” Skye gritted her teeth. Why couldn’t May understand? The last time she’d seen Simon was nearly two months ago, when his mother and hers had locked them together in the bowling alley basement in an attempt to force them to make up. He had refused to explain how he “forgot” to mention that the college friend he was staying with on his trip to California was a woman; and Skye had refused to trust him without an explanation. Now Skye shook her finger at her mother and snarled, “Simon is out of my life. Deal with it.”
Another vehicle pulled into the driveway, saving May from responding. This one was a Mercedes with a license plate that read crmpays. May grabbed Skye’s arm and dragged her over to the Benz.
A six-foot-tall, well-toned woman with smooth mahogany skin and black hair worn in a coronet of braids got out of the driver’s seat. May hugged her, and said to Skye, “I asked Loretta to join us. Since she and Vince are dating, I want to get to know her better.”
Loretta gave Skye a hug and kiss, and said in a droll tone, “Surprise.”
Loretta Steiner was Skye’s sorority sister, sometimes attorney, and possibly her future sister-in-law, although Skye wasn’t holding her breath about that since her brother Vince had a “love ‘em and leave ‘em” reputation. Skye would need to get Loretta alone to hear how May had convinced her to attend this little party.
Before Skye could begin to worry about who else might
show up for the weekend, an old red Camaro roared down the lane and stopped with a loud backfire. Both Skye and her mother stood with their mouths hanging open as a long-legged, middle-aged redhead dressed in lime spandex pants, matching faux fur jacket, and stilettos emerged from the over-the-hill sports car. A solidly built teenage girl wearing fashionably faded and torn jeans, a tie-dyed tunic, and a calf-length sweater followed her. Loretta’s only reaction was a raised eyebrow.
May turned to Skye. “What are The Trollop and Frannie doing here?”
Skye ignored her mother’s question, and said, “This better not be another harebrained matchmaking scheme you three have cooked up. If Simon pulls into this driveway, I’m moving to Alabama.”
May held up both hands in surrender. “Honest. I don’t know anything about it.”
Skye looked questioningly at Loretta and Trixie, who both shook their heads.
Skye’s little group approached Bunny Reid, AKA The Trollop, AKA Skye’s ex-boyfriend’s mother.
Fighting to keep her tone neutral, Skye asked, “Bunny, Frannie, what brings you two here?” Frannie was one of Skye’s favorite students. They were extremely close, and Skye was surprised the teen hadn’t mentioned her plans.
Bunny enveloped Skye in an Obsession-scented hug. “Frannie wanted to write a story for the school newspaper—’The Treasure of the Cursed Spa.’ Her dad agreed to pay for her weekend as an early birthday present, but she needed an adult chaperone, so she asked me.” Bunny was the manager of the local bowling alley where Frannie worked part-time. “I thought you and Trixie were the school newspaper’s sponsors. How come you don’t know about the story?”
“That’s exactly what I want to know.” Skye raised an eyebrow.
Red crept up Frannie’s face, but she kept quiet. Frannie’s mother had died several years ago and her father, Xavier Ryan, was Simon’s assistant at the funeral home. Xavier did his best, but a teenage daughter was a challenge for him.
Murder of a Botoxed Blonde Page 3
