Murder of a Creped Suzette

Oh. Yeah. Her canine houseguest. Whatever would she do about him? She hoped his owner would come forward and claim him, but she had a bad feeling that wish wouldn’t be granted unless a genie popped out of her milk carton later that morning during breakfast. Considering how likely that scenario was, she’d better come up with an alternative. Hmm. Nope. No brilliant ideas.

She’d think about that later. According to the clock, she had more than an hour before the alarm would ring. Closing her eyes, she tried to go back to sleep, but too much occupied her mind.

Last night, having decided not to bother Wally about the weird message she’d received, she’d given Toby a bath, using that time to consider her interspecies problem. The only solution she could come up with was to lock Bingo in the bedroom with her for the night and keep the little dog in the sunroom. The drawback was that none of the downstairs rooms had doors, and constructing a barricade to keep Toby contained had been a challenge. In the end she had settled for a folded card table, which she had duct taped flat across the sunroom’s entrance.

As if he knew that his human was thinking about a D-O-G, Bingo meowed from the pillow next to Skye. She turned her head and discovered the cat watching her, but when she extended her hand to pet him, he moved a few inches out of her reach and meowed again.

“Hey. You usually sleep with me anyway, and I lugged your litter box, not to mention your food and water bowls, up here, so what’s your problem?”

“Fine.” She swung her legs over the side of the mattress. “But you’re staying in here until I work out what to do with Toby.”

Which reminded her—she’d better check on the dog. Thank goodness he appeared to be house-trained, but it had been seven hours since his last walk.

Skye padded barefoot down the staircase and groaned when she stepped into the foyer. Sometime during the night, Toby must have escaped the barrier she had constructed. Up and down the hall, shredded magazines and books made it look like a huge confetti balloon had burst.

In the parlor, throw pillows had been chewed and tossed around, and the air swirled with their feathery remains. But by far the worst mess was in the kitchen. Whatever had been on the counter or table was now on the floor. Canisters of flour and sugar had been knocked to the tiles and broken open. Torn tea bags were strewn everywhere, and ribbons of cloth chewed from her pale yellow place mats added a decorative touch. How in the world had a dog less than two feet tall jumped so high and done so much damage?

Following the trail of telltale paw prints, Skye found Toby asleep in the sunroom—right where she had left him the night before. Bits of what might have been her favorite candy-apple-red lace bra adorned his fur. It was obvious that Toby could not be trusted alone while she went to work.

As Skye leaned against the wall, her head spinning from the extent of the demolition, Toby opened one bright brown eye and gave her his best canine smile. Her shoulders slumped. It wasn’t his fault. Yesterday had been traumatic for him, and last night she’d left him alone too long. A bored doggie was a destructive doggie.

He yelped again, and she carried him to the back door. Shoving her feet into a pair of neon orange Crocs, she clipped on his leash and trudged down the back steps. It crossed her mind that if she were to keep Toby, she’d have to have her backyard fenced.

Once his immediate needs were taken care of, the little dog ate his breakfast and settled down for a nap. Hoping he stayed asleep, Skye cleaned up the mess he had made, then hurried upstairs to get ready for work.

After a quick shower, Skye walked into her bedroom just as the radio alarm she’d forgotten to shut off clicked on. As she stood looking into her closet, trying to decide if she could stand to wear yet another pair of black slacks to school, she hummed along with Glen Campbell singing “Galveston.”

The announcer’s voice distracted her from her fashion dilemma. “It’s six o’clock on a beautiful fall Tuesday morning. Today’s temperature will be in the high sixties, with light breezes and sunshine. And all of you will be pleased to hear the high humidity is finally gone.”

As she reached for her zebra-print twinset, the DJ said, “Now for some breaking news. Early yesterday evening, the body of a woman was discovered at the old Hutton dairy farm. This property was recently purchased by Rex Taylor, a music promoter from Nashville, for a country music theater. Mr. Taylor hopes to turn our area into the Branson of Illinois.”

Skye was tempted to cover her ears and sing La la la, but she forced herself to listen to the rest of the report so she’d know exactly what information had been released to the public.

“The police have verified that the victim was found under a large piece of construction machinery, but they refused to provide any further details.” The announcer’s voice deepened. “Murder has not been ruled out.”

When the DJ switched to sports, Skye turned off the radio. Sound bites of athletes mangling the English language drove her crazy.

As she finished dressing, the phone rang. “Morning, darlin’,” Wally greeted her. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. Much. Thank you for persuading me to leave last night.” Skye wedged the handset between her shoulder and neck and sat down at her dressing table to apply her makeup. “What time did you get home?”

“You must be exhausted.” Skye examined the circles under her own eyes and reached for a tube of concealer. “What kept you so long?”

“First it took the techs forever because it was an outdoor crime scene; then we had a hard time locating Rex Taylor, and when we did find him, his wife demanded that she accompany him to the barn. After watching the guy flirt with the female EMT, I can see why Mrs. Taylor insisted on coming with him.”

“Nope.” Wally’s tone was not amused. “When she saw the body, the idiot woman fainted and her husband made us get the paramedics to take care of her.”

“Yes and no,” Wally answered slowly. “He was able to say for certain that the clothes the victim had on were what Suzette had worn to work that day. And Mrs. Taylor identified a necklace on the body as Suzette’s. But to be absolutely certain we’ll have to wait for DNA tests. When the techs went through her room at the motor court, they picked up her toothbrush and razor for comparison DNA samples.”

“Did you get a chance to ask about Toby?” Skye crossed her fingers. Please, please, please, she begged silently. She really wanted to be able to hand the dog over to his rightful owner on her way to work.

“Yep. He was Suzette’s all right.” Wally paused, then said, “Did she mention any relatives when she talked to you the other night?”

“Son of a b—!” Wally cut himself off. “Mr. and Mrs. Taylor have no idea who her next of kin might be, and no emergency contact is listed on her employment records.”

“What will you do next?” Skye checked her watch. She really needed to get off the phone with Wally so she could start looking for someone to take care of Toby.

“We’ll talk to her colleagues, do a background check—you know, the usual. What time will you be finished today?”

“Sure.” Skye bit her lip. “Uh, do you think maybe Mr. or Mrs. Taylor would want Suzette’s dog?” She thought fast. “I mean, if she brought Toby to work, they might be attached to him.”

“I don’t know.” Skye had counted on someone connected with Suzette claiming him. “I guess, for now, I’ll keep him. At least until the case is closed or we find a member of Suzette’s family.”

“If we find her next of kin, they may not want him.” Wally’s voice was gentle. “Not everyone is as willing to take in strays as you are.”

“I’ll deal with that when the time comes.” Skye checked her watch again. “Hey—sorry to cut you off, but I’ve got to get going. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

As soon as she hung up, she remembered the message from the night before. Should she call Wally back? No. If it was that important, last night’s caller could have phoned Wally directly. Besides, she had to find a dog sitter ASAP.

Geez! Skye couldn’t believe she wasn’t able to think of anyone to take care of Toby. Her first choices—Trixie, Loretta, and Vince—all worked, as did all of her friends. She briefly considered Frannie Ryan, Justin Boward, and Xenia Craughwell, recent high school grads with whom she had remained close, but they were attending college or film school classes.

A fellow animal lover, her father would have been ideal. Too bad Jed was at an estate sale hoping to buy an old grain truck for cheap. Her godfather, Charlie Patu-kas, owner and manager of the Up A Lazy River Motor Court, was also gone for the day—in Joliet, buying new mattresses for the cottages.

Skye’s mother, who should have been the next logical choice, would have a hissy fit when she learned Skye had taken the dog. May would tell her to give him to Animal Control. It didn’t feel right asking her aunts or cousins for a favor. Skye just didn’t have that kind of relationship with any of them—especially considering the very real possibility that Toby might destroy their houses as he had hers.

Which left Owen. Trixie’s husband would make a perfect canine nanny. He worked at home, liked dogs, and wouldn’t be overly upset if Toby chewed up his possessions. There was only one—all right, two—problems. First, Skye felt a little awkward talking to him after the incident at the concert last Saturday, and second, Trixie must have already left for work, because no one was answering the phone at the Frayne residence.

Okay, that doesn’t mean he isn’t there. Trixie had said he rarely stepped into the house during the day. Owen was probably in the barn. Yep. That was where he was all right—there or in one of the other outbuildings. He wouldn’t be in the fields today. The corn was already in, and depending on the weather, it would be five to ten days before the soybeans could be harvested.

Blocking any alternative scenario from her thoughts, Skye gathered up Toby and his equipment and put him in the car, admonishing him, “Be a good boy and Uncle Owen will take you for a nice run.”

Returning to the house, Skye sprinted upstairs and opened the bedroom door to release Bingo from his imprisonment. He was curled up on the mattress and only deigned to open one eye and yawn before going back to sleep.

Skye pulled into the Fraynes’ driveway at a quarter after seven. She had fifteen minutes to convince Owen to watch Toby and to make it to the high school on time. Drat! Another day of running as fast as she could just to keep up.

The white two-story house was to her left. Its door was closed, the shades down, and there was no sign of Owen. In front of Skye was a garage and an equipment shed; to her right was the barn.

To Toby, Skye said, “I’ll be back in a second. Good doggies do not chew on genuine leather seats or expensive wooden steering wheels.”

Tossing a mental coin, Skye chose to try the barn first. It felt a little like déjà vu, but unlike yesterday’s barn, this one was clearly a working enterprise. Bales of hay were stacked along one end of the interior and stalls lined either side. The animals had already been released into their paddocks for the day, but their odor lingered.

There was no answer, but as she strode through the building, she noticed evidence of Owen’s recent presence. The stalls had been mucked out; the rake, shovel, and pitchfork were back in their assigned places; and all the metal troughs were full of water.

Silence. Okay, he was probably in the equipment shed. If he was anything like her father, when all the other chores were done, he tinkered with his machinery.

The shed’s only entrance was a towering metal door that had to be rolled to the side. Skye managed to shove it far enough open to squeeze through, but the gap didn’t allow much light. The interior was one cavernous room with a packed-dirt floor. Arranged in rough rows were tractors, combines, threshers, and a variety of implements she didn’t recognize.

She picked her way carefully down the center walkway, peering into the shadows and calling out Owen’s name. Darn ! He wasn’t here, either.

Crossing her fingers, Skye headed to the garage, murmuring under her breath, “Be there, be there, please be there.”

Both overhead doors were down, which was not a good sign, but Skye forced herself to remain optimistic as she walked over to the pedestrian entrance and opened it. Inside, one space was empty, clearly where Trixie parked her Honda Civic, but the other half was occupied by a dusty black pickup.

If Owen’s truck was here, where was he? As Skye pondered that question, something nibbled at the back of her mind.

Good gravy! Owen’s pickup looked just like the one that had dropped off Suzette at the trailer Saturday night. No. Skye shook her head and scolded herself. Don’t go there. A lot of men drive dusty black trucks. Surely Suzette’s date hadn’t been Owen.