Murder of a Creped Suzette

It had been raining steadily since eleven a.m., and was still pouring when Skye left the high school at four fifteen. The irony would not be lost on the farmers—when the crops had needed water, there’d been a drought; now that they needed dry conditions for the harvest, there was a downpour.

The deluge wouldn’t be good for the construction at the barn-theater site, either. The workers had probably been sent home hours ago. In which case, Rex may have decided to call it a day, too.

Heck! Maybe Suzette wouldn’t be there, either. Skye smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand, cursing herself for not getting a phone number from the singer. She certainly didn’t want to drive out to the theater and find a note saying Suzette and her boss were somewhere else.

Wally had told Skye that the old police records—ones pertaining to cases more than ten years earlier—hadn’t been put into the computer yet. They were still stored in cardboard boxes in the PD’s basement. He had promised to ask one of his officers to try to find the Neal folder as soon as possible, but he couldn’t swear when that might be.

Now that Skye had decided to help Suzette, she was eager to get started, and had come up with a list of questions:

1. What was the time of death?

2. When did Mrs. Neal usually take her bath?

3. Where did the Neal family live?

4. Did anyone remember Mr. and Mrs. Neal having marriage troubles?

5. Where did Mr. Neal work?

6. Was Mrs. Neal a stay-at-home mom?

7. Did they have any relatives in town?

With the file currently unavailable, her only source of information was whatever details the singer could remember about her family.

Although a useless trip would be annoying, at least the dairy farm wasn’t far. As Skye turned the Bel Air onto Maryland Street, she could only hope that Suzette wanted to find her mother’s killer enough to stick around, even if everyone else had left.

The Hutton dairy farm was located midway between Scumble River and the neighboring towns of Brooklyn and Clay Center, in an area Scumble River had annexed a couple of years ago, when the mayor promised the town that a trucking depot would purchase the land. That deal had fallen through, much to Dante’s chagrin.

After Skye passed Great Expectations, the hair salon her brother owned, and the medical building across from Vince’s shop, the scenery became rural. There were a few houses along the way, but they were separated by acres of corn and soybeans.

During the summer and fall, when the crops were mature, those residents had complete privacy. Their neighbors couldn’t see their homes or vice versa. If Rex Taylor’s plans came to fruition, these people would lose that prized seclusion.

Hmm. Didn’t Theresa Dugan live out here? That would sure explain the normally serene teacher’s meltdown at the PTO meeting. Nothing like a personal stake in the situation to transform someone into a community activist.

Skye wondered how many farmers and homeowners would sell out to the music promoter. She was thankful that her family’s land was on the other side of Scumble River, and would be of little interest to Mr. Taylor.

Just before she reached the I-55 exit, an old sign advertising the defunct dairy loomed up on her right. As Skye pulled onto the rutted dirt road, she noted a pair of decrepit wooden gates lying on the ground, an uncomfortable reminder that agriculture’s heyday was long gone. After Skye bumped down the lane for a quarter of a mile, the buildings came into view.

The once white clapboard farmhouse was situated on the left side of the property, separated from the other structures by a neglected yard and a detached garage with a large gravel rectangle in front of the doors. A row of overgrown evergreen bushes had completely blocked the front porch. The grass was nearly thigh high, and a lawn ornament, a rusted windmill, spun madly in the wind that had kicked up.

Through the sheeting raindrops, Skye could barely make out the beginning of the makeover from farm to theater. All the work seemed to be on the exterior of the milking barn and the area around it, which was being turned into a parking lot. The other buildings—house, garage, and silos—appeared untouched.

A gleaming white Winnebago had been installed next to the driveway, which was empty of cars. Sheesh! It looked as if everyone had left for the day, just as she had feared.

Skye parked the Bel Air as close to the trailer as possible and reached into the backseat for her umbrella. She waited for the downpour to let up, then ran to the Winnebago’s door. Sitting on the metal step was a small white dog wearing a hot pink collar studded with rhinestones. It whined when she approached.

The canine was so wet and bedraggled, Skye couldn’t tell if it was a purebred or not, but she could see that it was male. She held out her hand, and the dog sniffed, then leaned against her knee. The heart-shaped silver tag on his collar was inscribed with the name Toby.

Fighting the wind, which was endeavoring to snatch the umbrella from Skye’s grasp, she tried to flip the tag over to see if there was owner information on the back, but the little dog danced out of her reach. Next she attempted to pick him up, thinking he probably belonged to one of the Country Roads staff, but he dodged her hands and darted between her legs.

Skye called after him, “Here, Toby. Come on, boy. I’ll take you somewhere dry.”

Toby stopped, blinked his dark brown eyes, and yipped, then loped toward the barn.

Skye hesitated. Should she go after the dog? No. It would probably be better to find Toby’s owner, as he or she would have an easier time persuading the canine to come in out of the rain.

Turning back, Skye tried the door. It was locked. Hmm. Maybe if Suzette was out here alone, she felt unsafe. Skye knocked. Nothing. She knocked again, then put her ear to the door to listen, but she couldn’t hear a thing.

There was no answer. She shouted even louder with the same results. Irritation prompted her to grab the knob and rattle the door. Still no answer.

Skye looked around. There was no sign of a note. Son of a gun! She’d been stood up. It was just plain rude to arrange to meet someone from whom you were asking a favor, then not honor the appointment. Maybe she wouldn’t help Suzette investigate her mother’s death after all.

Frustrated, Skye headed back to her car. She was about to slide into the driver’s seat when the little white dog reappeared in front of the Bel Air’s hood. Skye slowly stood back up and moved toward him, but he scurried toward the barn. He stopped halfway and barked, then ran on, stopping every few steps to stare at her.

Skye had seen enough reruns of Lassie on Nick at Nite to know that Toby wanted her to follow him. But why? She doubted Timmy was trapped in a well, and she sure hoped Toby didn’t want to show off a snake or a possum he had killed. Skye’d had her fill of Bingo’s mouse carcass trophies.

The dog kept ahead of her, never letting her get within grabbing range. He paused in front of the barn, but as Skye caught up, he shot off. Did Toby want her to go inside? It sure would be easier if dogs could talk.

The barn door was closed, but not locked. When Skye entered, she saw they hadn’t started work on the interior yet. She walked through the cavernous space, but saw nothing that would make Toby behave as he had.

The flight of stairs to the hayloft was steep, and Skye was not thrilled at the prospect of climbing them. She kicked off her heels and yelled, “Is anyone up there?”

No answer. She ascended the wooden steps, wincing as they creaked. If she fell and broke her neck because of a dog, her mother would kill her. May hated all animals, especially pets.

Reaching the top, Skye couldn’t see anything at first because the loft was so dark. But as her eyes adjusted it was clear that there was nothing there but a century’s worth of dust and a few wisps of hay.

Skye’s sense of unease grew. Whatever Toby wanted to show her wasn’t here. When she exited the barn, the dog was pacing outside the door. Spotting her, he woofed and trotted away.

This time he kept Skye in sight, never getting more than a few feet in front of her. He led her around the back of the building to where the parking lot was being installed. Heavy earth-moving equipment was parked haphazardly across the vast dirt and gravel square.

Once Skye caught up with Toby, he ran to a steamroller and sat beside it, whimpering. Peeking out from under the massive roller was a pair of pink cowboy boots.

A shiver ran down Skye’s spine. She hesitated a long moment, praying she wasn’t seeing what she thought she was seeing, then ran over to the machine. In her head she knew that whoever was wearing those boots was dead, but she crouched down anyway and tried to reach an ankle to check for a pulse.

The flesh felt cold and hard, and when Skye withdrew her hand, it was covered with blood.