Murder of a Creped Suzette
( Scumble River Mystery - 14 )
Denise Swanson
When mega-millionaire and imitation cowboy Rex Taylor proposes building a country music theater in Scumble River, everyone's ready to do the boot-scootin' boogie except school psychologist Skye Denison. She's been asked by Suzette Neal, Rex's assistant and a rising country star, to investigate her mother's suspicious death twenty-seven years earlier. No sooner does Skye agree to help than she finds Suzette literally flattened -- and very dead. Now there are two mysterious deaths -- a mother and twenty-seven years later, her daughter. Suspicion seems to be hovering over Suzette's inner circle: Rex's jealous wife, a mysterious man in a black pickup truck, and the sizzling-hot singer Flint James, who also happens to have been Suzette's bitter rival for country-western fame. With a honky-tonk full of suspects and a tangled web of motives that stretches back two decades, Skye already knows too much. She must rise to the occasion or she could be the next one to end up flat as a cräaepe suzette.
Praise for the Scumble River Series
Murder of a Bookstore Babe
“A fun and fast-paced mystery.”
—The Mystery Reader
“As fresh and fun to read as the first book, and that’s quite a tribute.”
—Fresh Fiction
Murder of a Wedding Belle
“The latest carefully crafted installment in Swanson’s Scumble River series features a charming heroine who is equally skilled at juggling detection and romance.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A tightly woven mystery. . . . I had no idea as to who the murderer was until the final reveal, which definitely makes for a page-turning read.”
—Once Upon a Romance Reviews
“This book was very hard to put down. I enjoyed it tremendously and highly recommend it.”
—Gumshoe
“As always . . . Swanson combines humor and romance within an intriguing homicide investigation while the support cast feels like friends.”
—Midwest Book Review
Murder of a Royal Pain
“A trip to Scumble River is like visiting with old friends . . . another entry into a fine series that is sure to be on most must-read lists.”
—The Mystery Reader
“Swanson has given me many a smile and many hours of wonderful, fun reading. This is another in a long line of really great books.”
—CrimeSpree Magazine
“Just plain fun to read. Readers of cozy mysteries who haven’t read Denise Swanson’s books are in for a real treat when they do.”
—Cozy Library
“Denise Swanson’s Scumble River Mysteries are always fun to read.”
—Midwest Book Review
Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry
“[A] cleverly crafted plot . . . with a generous dash of romance.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Top-notch storytelling with truly unique and wonderful characters.”
—CrimeSpree Magazine
Murder of a Botoxed Blonde
“Endearing . . . quirky . . . a delight.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Tight plotting and plenty of surprises keep this series on my must-read list.”
—CrimeSpree Magazine
Murder of a Real Bad Boy
“Swanson is a born storyteller.”
—CrimeSpree Magazine
“Another knee-slapping adventure in Scumble River.”
—The Amplifier (KY)
Murder of a Smart Cookie
“Smartly spins on a solid plot and likable characters.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“[Swanson] has a lot of surprises in store for the reader.”
—Midwest Book Review
Murder of a Pink Elephant
“The must-read book of the summer.”
—Butler County Post (KY)
“Current readers will appreciate the trip into Scumble River, while new readers will want to go back.”
—The Best Reviews
Murder of a Barbie and Ken
“Swanson continues her lively, light, and quite insightful look at small-town life.”
—The Hartford Courant
“Another sidesplitting visit to Scumble River . . . with some of the quirkiest and most eccentric characters we ever have met.”
—Butler County Post (KY)
Murder of a Snake in the Grass
“An endearing and realistic character . . . a fast-paced, enjoyable read.”
—The Herald News (MA)
“This book is delightful.”
—Mysterious Woman
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty
“A smooth, pleasant, and ultimately satisfying book.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Another delightful and intriguing escapade.”
—Mystery News
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady
“More fun than the Whirl-a-Gig at the County Fair and tastier than a corn dog.”
—The Charlotte Austin Review
“A magnificent tale written by a wonderful author.”
—Midwest Book Review
Murder of a Small-Town Honey
“Bounces along with gently wry humor and jaunty twists and turns. The quintessential amateur sleuth: bright, curious, and more than a little nervy.”
—Agatha Award–winning author Earlene Fowler
“A charming, insightful debut.”
—Carolyn Hart
Other Scumble River Mysteries
Murder of a Bookstore Babe
Murder of a Wedding Belle
Murder of a Royal Pain
Murder of a Chocolate- Covered Cherry
Murder of a Botoxed Blonde
Murder of a Real Bad Boy
Murder of a Smart Cookie
Murder of a Pink Elephant
Murder of a Barbie and Ken
Murder of a Snake in the Grass
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady
Murder of a Small- Town Honey
Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2011
All rights reserved
To my good friend, and trivia team member
extraordinaire, Beverlee (Angel) Porter.
Thank you for nearly single-handedly spreading the word
about my books throughout Canada.
Acknowledgments
A big thank-you to Donna Sears for telling me about a music promoter trying to turn her town into the “Branson of the West.”
Author’s Note
In July of 2000, when the first book in my Scumble River series, Murder of a Small-Town Honey, was published, it was written in “real time.” It was the year 2000 in Skye’s life as well as mine, but after several books in a series, time becomes a problem. It takes me from seven months to a year to write a book, and then it is usually another year from the time I turn that book in to my editor until the reader sees it on a bookstore shelf. This can make the timeline confusing. Different authors handle this matter in different ways. After a great deal of deliberation, I decided that Skye and her friends and family would age more slowly than those of us who don’t live in Scumble River. So to catch everyone up, the following is when the books take place:
Murder of a Small-Town Honey—August 2000
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady—March 2001
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty—April 2002
Murder of a Snake in the Grass—August 2002
Murder of a Barbie and Ken—November 2002
Murder of a Pink Elephant—February 2003
Murder of a Smart Cookie—June 2003
Murder of a Real Bad Boy—September 2003
Murder of a Botoxed Blonde—November 2003
Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry—April 2004
Murder of a Royal Pain—October 2004
Murder of a Wedding Belle—June 2005
Murder of a Bookstore Babe—September 2005
And this is when the Scumble River short story and novella take place:
“Not a Monster of a Chance” from And the Dying Is Easy—June 2001
“Dead Blondes Tell No Tales” from Drop-Dead Blonde—March 2003
Scumble River is not a real town. The characters and events portrayed in these pages are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to living persons is pure coincidence.
CHAPTER 1
“Walking the Floor Over You”
Skye Denison had to admit that Flint James was hot. Neither the engagement ring on her finger nor her utter aversion to sports of any kind altered the fact that the pro quarterback turned country singer looked like a Greek statue—if statues wore cowboy hats, had smoky whiskey-colored eyes, and sported really good tans.
Flint leaned on the side railing of Scumble River Park’s newly constructed grandstand, gazing at the early evening sky. The rising star appeared unconcerned about whatever was transpiring at the back of the stage, where a cluster of guys wearing jeans, T-shirts, and baseball caps surrounded a man dressed in an expensive country-western-style suit.
To Skye, the group of men looked like the featured critters in a Whac-A-Mole game—first one head would pop up, scan the audience, and duck back down; then another and another, before starting the process all over again. It was obvious that something was wrong, but what? While the others appeared merely irritated, Mr. Suit looked apoplectic.
According to the liberally distributed flyers, the program was supposed to start at six thirty. It was already a quarter to seven, and although the park was ablaze with lights and there were amplifiers scattered around the stage’s perimeter, nothing was happening.
Perhaps the out-of-towners didn’t understand how much the good citizens of Scumble River valued punctuality, but Skye knew that if something didn’t happen soon, people would begin to leave. Small-town Illinoisans considered arriving fifteen minutes early as the equivalent of being on time, the stated hour as barely acceptable, and anything afterward as intolerably late.
The only thing that might persuade everyone to hang around was the complimentary refreshments. An open bar tended to keep most Scumble Riverites happy for quite a while.
Skye fanned herself with the old grocery list she had found in the pocket of her khaki capris and watched for her fiancé, Wally Boyd. As chief of police, he was on duty tonight.
Usually he wouldn’t be working on a Saturday night, but the entire Scumble River police force—six full-time officers and two part-timers—was patrolling this event. An affair like this one needed all the crowd control available. It wasn’t often that a celebrity like Flint James performed anywhere near Scumble River, let alone at a free concert.
Which brought up a good question. Why? Why would Flint James agree to come to the middle of nowhere and sing, especially without charging for tickets?
As Skye slapped at a gnat buzzing around her ear, she caught sight of her uncle, the mayor. Dante Leofanti was seated front and center on something resembling a red canvas throne. It had a canopy, a table attached to the arm, and even a footrest. His wife, Olive, sat by his side in a smaller version of the same elaborate chair, although hers was baby blue.
Skye narrowed her eyes. Nothing happened in the mayor’s town without his knowledge and permission. Dante must have approved the use of the park, the permit to build the grandstand, and the authorization to serve alcohol. He would certainly know why Flint James was singing here, but did Skye care enough to go over there and ask him? No. Dante treated information like a commodity, and she didn’t want to be in his debt.
More to the point, she really didn’t need to know. There was an extremely fine line between concerned and nosy, and because Skye suffered from curiosity overdrive she usually erred on the wrong side of that line. But not this time.
She wasn’t on duty as either the town’s school psychologist or the police department’s psychological consultant. She was just at the concert to hear some good music and have fun with her friends. Whatever was going on was not her problem. For once she would mind her own business.
Speaking of friends, where was Trixie? Skye’s BFF, Trixie Frayne, and Trixie’s husband, Owen, were supposed to have shown up half an hour ago. Skye checked her cell phone. It was on—she often forgot to power it up—but she didn’t have any messages, so her friend hadn’t tried to reach her.
Skye attempted to call Trixie, but got her voice mail. After leaving a message asking Trixie and Owen to meet her by the refreshment stand, Skye threaded her way through the crowd looking for them.
While she walked, Skye dug through her purse for a barrette, desperate to get her humidity-frizzed chestnut curls out of her face. The freshly ironed white sleeveless blouse she had put on just before leaving home was now wrinkled and limp, clinging to her ample curves like a damp shower curtain. Autumn had begun three weeks earlier, but the unusually high temperature made it feel like it was still the dog days of summer.
Skye considered giving up on Trixie and Owen and going home. She could relax in the air-conditioning, watch a movie, and spend some quality time with her cat. Although she liked country music, without Wally or her friends the concert wouldn’t be much fun.
Besides, she wasn’t fond of outdoor events unless the weather was perfect—a circumstance rarely found in the Midwest, where it was often necessary to switch from the heat to the A/C and vice versa on the same day.
Still, when you lived in the same small town where you grew up, worked in public education, and were engaged to the police chief, it was a good idea to show your face at social gatherings. And Skye had finally admitted that she did want to be a part of the community. It had taken her a while, but after five years she recognized that moving back to Scumble River, despite its rigid sense of right and wrong, had been a good decision.
Given the choice, she would stay in her hometown for the rest of her life. Too bad this evening was beginning to feel like it would last at least that long.
Skye had reached the edge of the lawn-chair-and-blanket-seated audience without spotting her friends. Where in the heck were they? She ground her teeth. Shoot! Not only was there no sign of Trixie and Owen, but now she needed to find a bathroom—fast.
Unfortunately, both Port-a-Potties had lengthy lines and Skye was fairly sure she couldn’t wait for her turn. On to plan B. There were bathrooms in the picnic area located behind the grandstand at the far end of the park. With any luck, no one would have thought of them.
Skye took off at a brisk trot, but a few steps from her goal, she was stopped by a red plastic ribbon strung between several sawhorses. A large white sign with black lettering read:
Employees of Country Roads Tour only.
Trespassers will be prosecuted.
Crap! There was no time to come up with a plan C. If she didn’t get to a toilet soon, she would embarrass herself big-time. Skye looked around. A silver Airstream with COUNTRY ROADS TOUR painted on its side was pulled in front of the bathroom, but there wasn’t anyone in sight. She stopped and listened. It was completely quiet. Excellent. She’d be in and out with no one the wiser.
Skye ducked under the ribbon, paused for a nanosecond, then darted toward her objective. Arriving a little out of breath, she found that the trailer was parked so close to the building she could barely get the screen door halfway open. She squeezed through the gap and sighed with relief when she saw the empty stalls.
A few minutes later, Skye was washing her hands when she heard angry voices coming from inside the RV. Yikes! She had to get out of there before she was discovered and arrested. Wouldn’t that be a delightful headline: Chief’s Fiancée Arrested for Using Forbidden Bathroom.
Skye plastered herself against the wall, willing herself to become invisible, which was a stretch considering her opulent figure. She snuck a quick look through the doorway. A large open window was situated directly across from the bathroom’s entrance. Why in the heck didn’t they have the air-conditioning on and their windows closed like normal people?
While waiting for her hair appointment last week, she had read in Entertainment Weekly that some singers disliked A/C because they thought it was bad for their vocal cords, but this was ridiculous. It was close to ninety degrees and muggy; surely those conditions couldn’t be good for anyone, even a star’s delicate throat.
Skye shook her head. Why didn’t matter. The window was open, and if she tried to leave now, the suit-wearing guy from the stage who was talking heatedly to Flint James would see her and call the police.
Taking another peek, Skye noted that Flint’s usually handsome face was an ugly scarlet mask, his broad shoulders were rigid, and his hands were fisted. His previous air of indifference was gone, and it looked as if he was itching to punch the other man in the face.
The ex-quarterback had a good five inches and fifty pounds of muscle on Mr. Suit, and could easily cause some real damage to the other guy. Flint might even kill him if the blow landed in exactly the right spot.
Should she call Wally? Make her presence known? Skye wavered. Maybe it was a guy thing, and she would just get herself in trouble if she interfered. A good time to keep your mouth shut was when you were in deep water, and she’d promised herself she would stop rushing in to help people who hadn’t asked for her assistance. Then again, she didn’t want anyone to get hurt.
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