Murder of a Creped Suzette

As Skye got ready for church the next morning, she thought about Suzette’s plea for help. The singer had seemed so alone in the world. It wouldn’t be that difficult for Skye to read over the police file and chat with a few of the locals who might remember Mr. and Mrs. Neal, especially Mrs. Neal’s fatal accident. But, for once, Skye would seriously consider getting involved before she rushed to someone’s assistance.

If she agreed to help Suzette, she didn’t want to regret that decision. And truth be told, Skye didn’t hold high hopes that anyone would recall much about the couple. They had lived in Scumble River for less than a year, a long time ago. However, Skye knew good and well that if the townsfolk did have any knowledge of the incident, they would talk to her a lot more easily than they would to a stranger.

Skye had agreed to consider looking into Mrs. Neal’s death, and promised Suzette an answer by Monday afternoon. The singer had suggested Skye pick her up at the barn-to-theater remodel site, where Rex had set up a mobile office, as Suzette would be spending most of her time there.

Finally, she heard Wally’s voice say, “Hi, darlin’. With all the drunk and disorderly arrests last night, I need to do a heap of paperwork this morning, so instead of coming to the house, meet me at the police station after Mass. We’ll go to brunch from there.”

She smiled. Wally was such a hard worker. Scumble River was lucky to have him. He could easily get a job in a bigger, better-paying, and more prestigious department. Thank goodness, money clearly wasn’t his number one priority or he’d be in Texas working for his father, the owner of a multimillion-dollar oil company.

When Skye arrived at the police station shortly after eleven a.m., she was surprised to find the parking lot nearly full. Scumble River’s PD occupied one side of a two-story redbrick edifice. A tiny lobby, the dispatcher’s work space, an interrogation room, and a couple of cubicles equipped with built-in desks, computers, and phones were located on the main level, a rarely used holding cell occupied part of the basement, and Wally’s office was on the second floor. The other half of the building held the city hall, town library, and mayor’s office.

There was no one behind the counter when Skye pushed through the frosted-glass door. The Scumble River police, fire, and emergency departments shared a common dispatcher who covered the phones and radios and handled paperwork for the officers. During the week, three women, including Skye’s mother, May, worked thirty hours each, rotating between the afternoon and midnight shifts. A fourth woman worked straight days. Two additional younger women worked the weekend shifts, but Skye could never remember their names. They were part-timers in a position where people rarely lasted more than a year before finding a better-paying, less stressful job.

Skye used her key to let herself into the back of the station. Where was everyone? She walked down a narrow hall toward the combination coffee-interrogation room and peered through the window. The dispatcher was sitting with a female suspect as an officer interviewed the woman. Ah. That explained the deserted reception counter.

Figuring that Wally was probably in his office, Skye mounted the steep steps to the second floor. As she neared the top, she heard voices. She’d paused, not wanting to interrupt Wally if he was with someone, when a round of clapping rang out. Hmm. The police chief seldom received applause.

Skye tilted her head, listening. Ah. The sound was coming from the mayor’s new office, not Wally’s. A couple of weeks ago, Dante had had an opening cut between the city hall and the police department, taking a part of the library in order to construct a larger office for himself. Her uncle must be holding a meeting, which was why there were so many cars in the parking lot.

Curious, Skye stepped into the city hall’s half of the upstairs and walked quietly to the open door. When she peeked inside, she saw Rex Taylor in front of Dante’s desk facing a semicircle of chairs occupied by some of Scumble River’s most influential citizens. These people were not the sort to give up their Sunday morning lightly. They’d be present only if there were momentous issues to discuss or serious money to be made.

As Skye watched, Suzette, wearing denim short shorts and a sleeveless pink gingham blouse with the shirttails tied between her breasts, poured champagne for the bigwigs. The singer filled Rex’s flute last, and he put his arm around her. She shifted her shoulders and shrugged off his embrace.

Rex smiled benevolently, as if dealing with a temperamental child, and allowed her to move away. As he raised his flute, his expression was instantly transformed. Now he radiated warmth and sincerity. “Sit back, ladies and gentlemen, sip your bubbly, and behold the future of Scumble River.”

Right on cue, a screen behind Rex descended from the ceiling. Dante hit the light switch and moved to a projector set up on a tripod in the rear. He fumbled for a moment; then blurry gray snow appeared.

Rex hit a few keys on his laptop and a computer-enhanced image of Scumble River materialized. The recorded voice of Flint James said, “Welcome to the Branson of Illinois. Thousands of tourists attracted to the Country Roads Theater will flock to the area, spending their money and turning this sleepy town into a thriving metropolis.”

Skye stared in appalled silence. From the Elvis Encounter Wax Museum and Haunted House, to the Scumble River Dinner Cruise aboard a coal barge, to the Hoedown Saloon Review with barely dressed girls performing a dance routine, each highlighted attraction was tackier than the last. The pièce de résistance was Rex’s vision for the surrounding farms. He wanted to turn them into “farmcation” resorts, where the guests could experience a taste of farm life—without any of the unpleasant chores or odors, of course.

By the time the promotional presentation ended, Skye’s head was throbbing and she leaned weakly against the wall. If Rex Taylor had his way, Scumble River would become nothing more than a hokey tourist trap with vacationers clogging the streets and crowding the stores. The laid-back small-town feeling that she had come to appreciate would be gone forever, and in its place would be her idea of a nightmare.

Skye glanced around the room, gauging the reaction of the attendees. They seemed to be split into two factions—some frowning, shaking their heads, and whispering furiously to their neighbors, and the others smiling and taking notes. She prayed fervently that the negative group would be the more influential.

Rex rose from the seat he had taken during the program. “You have probably been wondering why you were invited here today. What do I want from you? Nothing. I’m here to give you something. The once-in-a-lifetime chance to make a fortune.” He pointed to Dante. “Your mayor and city council took the first step in guiding this town to financial security when they approved the country music theater complex I’m building. Now it’s up to you to follow their lead and invest in Scumble River’s future.”

“This is your opportunity to cash in on all the tourists I’ll be bringing into the area with my theater,” Rex continued. “I’ve already arranged for several country music stars to perform here, and for numerous travel companies to schedule their buses to stop here during the summer vacation season.”

“I’ll be making appointments to talk to each and every one of you privately in order to advise you about the types of businesses you might want to open that would attract sightseers.” Rex made eye contact with everyone present before saying, “The first ones on the gravy train will make the most money. Make sure you’re not one of the people who only catches the caboose.”

All around the room, voices were raised and arguments erupted. Two men were already on their feet, fists clenched. Skye started to go into the office, but stopped in her tracks. There was nothing she could do or say to influence anyone’s opinion. Her uncle was obviously in full cahoots with Rex. The outcome of the music promoter’s plans was completely out of her hands. Skye’s only hope was that the people in the room who hadn’t drunk Rex’s Kool-Aid would continue to abstain.

For once, I-55 wasn’t under construction, and it was a pleasant drive north to the restaurant Wally had chosen. He entertained Skye with stories about some of the funnier arrests from the previous night’s drunken revelries, and she, in turn, filled him in on the scenes she had witnessed on the way to the parking lot.

When they reached I-355 and the more intense traffic, Wally grew quiet, fully focused on the highway. He handled his car, a sky blue Thunderbird convertible that had been a fortieth-birthday gift from his wealthy father, with calm confidence.

Skye gazed at Wally’s handsome profile, lost in her own thoughts. She needed to talk to him about Suzette and the meeting she had witnessed in Dante’s office, but didn’t want to distract Wally from the road, so she remained quiet until they arrived at the restaurant.

The Clubhouse was located next to Oak Brook Mall, a fashionable shopping area on the outskirts of Chicago. The two-story redbrick building sported a bright green roof and black-and-beige-striped awnings.

As Wally pulled up to the valet stand and turned over his keys, he said to Skye, “I hope you’re hungry. I hear they have a spectacular brunch here.”

“Great. I’m starving.” Skye waited until he came around to open her door, then took his arm. “I slept in this morning, and didn’t have time to eat anything before church.”

“No. I just got to bed so late last night that I couldn’t wake up.” Skye noticed the hostess waiting for Wally to claim their reservation. “Let’s get our table; then I’ll tell you all about it.”

The woman led them up a dramatic sweeping staircase, over a beautiful floor of dark and light wood in a checkerboard design, and to a half-moon area one step up from the rest of the room. On their way they passed several massive buffet tables loaded with everything from eggs Benedict to petits fours.

The hostess showed them to a secluded table covered in a pristine white tablecloth and laid with intricately folded napkins, gleaming silver, and sparkling crystal. She waited until they were seated side by side on the leather banquette, then handed Wally the wine list and gestured to their server, who was standing nearby.

“You always say that, and it’s always not funny.” Skye slid from the booth and marched toward the seafood bar. Moments later they were back at the table with heaping plates full of spicy shrimp, boiled crab claws, and smoked salmon on toast points spread with cream cheese and topped with capers.

Between bites, Skye explained about the mysterious person who had told Suzette that Skye was the Scumble River Nancy Drew, ending with, “Of course, anyone who reads the paper could be the one who called me that.”

Skye took a swallow of her mimosa, then told him about Suzette’s mother. When she finished, she narrowed her eyes and said, “Tell me the truth. You probably think I shouldn’t agree to do it.”

“I don’t see any reason not to take the case. If it seemed like a plausible accident, there wouldn’t have been an autopsy or much investigation.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “And I knew when we started dating that you weren’t the kind of person who could turn down a request for help.”

“You are so sweet.” Skye couldn’t stop herself from comparing Wally to her ex-boyfriend Simon Reid, who would have blown a gasket if she had told him she was going to nose around in something that wasn’t any of her business. “Have I told you lately how much I love and appreciate you?”