Murder of a Creped Suzette

Skye hurried out of the junior high school as soon as the final bell rang. She had several items on her to-do list, but two tasks were competing for the number one spot—picking up Toby before Puppy charged her overtime and tracking down Wally. She’d been calling and leaving messages for him every chance she had, which wasn’t all that often since she’d been stuck in a PPS meeting most of the afternoon.

Using cell phones wasn’t allowed in the school building, but as Skye’s foot hit the parking lot pavement, she dug hers out and powered it up. Before she could hit speed dial, she saw she had a missed call. Punching in her super-secret code—456—she put the tiny silver rectangle to her ear and tapped her fingers against the metal case as she waited for the chance to press the correct number, after which she might actually get to hear what her caller had to say.

Skye couldn’t understand why people thought voice mail was superior to an old-fashioned answering machine. Instead of facing forty-two options—most of which she would never use—a push of a button, and your messages played.

Finally, Wally’s voice said, “Sorry we keep missing each other today, darlin’. My cell bit the dust early this morning and I wasn’t able to get a new one until three o’clock.”

“One of the reasons it took me so long to replace my phone is that someone leaked the news that semen was found in the body and reporters are camped out at the PD again.”

“So instead of coming to the station, meet me in back at the church parking lot at four thirty. We have a road trip to make. Love you. Bye.”

Heck! Wally hadn’t mentioned anything about his interview with Owen. Having checked with Trixie, Skye knew Owen had returned before bedtime last night, saying he’d gone for a ride to look at the neighbors’ fields. But Skye didn’t buy that explanation any more than Trixie had.

Skye glanced at her watch. Ten after four. Oh, well; at least she’d see Wally in twenty minutes or so. She could probably contain her curiosity for that long—but just barely. She turned the key, threw the Bel Air in gear, and stomped on the gas.

Doggy Daycare was mobbed with parents retrieving their canine children. The wait was so long, Skye was considering calling Wally to say she’d be late when she finally reached the front of the line.

“Oh?” Skye answered cautiously. Considering Puppy and Doggy Daycare, Skye was afraid they had bronzed Toby’s poop as a memento.

“I’ll be right back.” Puppy disappeared behind a half wall and returned seconds later with Toby in her arms.

At least, Skye thought it was Toby. She examined the little white dog carefully. His fur had been clipped so close he looked like a sheared lamb—except for the giant round cotton ball–like puff at the end of his tail.

Tentatively, Skye fingered the bright blue bows adorning his head. Those would have to go. But how in the heck were they attached? She had a feeling their removal would require scissors, or maybe even a scalpel.

“Wow.” It had taken Skye a moment to realize that Puppy was staring at her, anxiously awaiting her reaction. “He really looks different.”

“Do you like it?” Puppy asked. “I had some extra time, and I felt a little bad about how much you had to pay for him to stay here, so I fixed him up.” When Skye didn’t respond, Puppy added, “It’s on the house.”

“It’s amazing.” Skye figured that was the only honest answer that wouldn’t hurt the woman’s feelings. “Thank you.”

After thanking Puppy again, Skye headed toward her rendezvous with Wally. When she rocketed into the church’s parking lot a few minutes later, Wally was leaning against the front fender of his Thunderbird. Not quite the undercover vehicle Skye would have chosen to avoid reporters, but a step up from a police cruiser.

Wally pushed upright as she squealed to a stop a few feet away. While Skye fumbled for her tote bag and Toby’s leash, Wally opened her door. She handed him the dog, got out, and gave him a quick kiss.

“What the hell happened to this poor little guy?” Wally held Toby up and away from him as if the dog had on a dirty diaper.

“It’s a long story,” Skye answered with a sigh. “Suffice it to say the owner of Doggy Daycare wears a headband with fake dog ears attached, wags her backside like a tail, and calls herself Puppy Pointer.”

“That’s it.” Skye shrugged. “Apparently she had it legally changed.” Skye paused to reflect on the absurdity of a grown woman called Puppy, then asked, “So what did Owen have to say?”

“That self-storage place halfway between here and Laurel.” Wally settled Toby on Skye’s lap—the sports car didn’t have a backseat—and slid behind the wheel. “Turns out all the files aren’t in the PD’s basement after all. Warehousing of the older records was outsourced when I was still a rookie.”

“Who’s the owner of that place related to?” Skye asked with a sidelong glance. “Nepotism is the only explanation for the city using a business located outside the city limits.”

Skye wasn’t at all surprised to hear it was one of her family members. She was kissing cousins to half the county, and that was just on her mother’s side. “Which of my many relatives is the proprietor?”

“Oh!” If Skye didn’t know how small-town government worked, she might have wondered how the chief of police could be unaware of where all the files were stored. But in a good-ol’-boy regime, unless you knew the right question to ask, no one would volunteer the information. “How did you find out there were more records than just the ones in the basement?”

“He is truly a pain in the butt,” Skye commiserated. “If it’s any consolation, he acts the same way with the family.”

“You know, he’s one of only a very few people I’d be willing to name a building after.” Wally grinned. “Of course, he’d have to be dead first.”

“I lost my temper.” Wally’s expression was sheepish. “I made it plain that if the police board had allowed me to have all the records digitized, as I had requested several years ago, maybe I could access the information I needed to solve Suzette’s murder.”

“I’m sure my uncle took that well. He so loves criticism.” Skye hid a smile. “Is that when Dante revealed the hush-hush location?”

“Yes. It seems that when the rent came due for the previous facility, Dante had the city hall custodians move everything to the place he owned. That must have been when the ones in the basement got all messed up, since he instructed them to reshuffle the boxes and leave the most recent ten years’ worth at the PD.” Wally scowled. “Of course, no one thought to mention any of this to me.”

“He told me the same thing about his absence on Saturday afternoon and evening that he told Trixie.” Wally stopped for a grain truck turning into a field. “He ran into an old friend after his business meeting and they went into Joliet for a drink.”

“What was the name of the friend?” Skye asked. “Did that person confirm Owen’s story?”

“Owen wouldn’t identify his companion. He hemmed and hawed, and said he’d rather not involve anyone else.” Wally’s expression was rueful. “He did, however, give me permission to look at his truck so I could see that there was no damage from any accident.”

“Rats!” Skye stopped petting Toby. “Did you promise him that whatever he told you would stay between the two of you?”

“Yes, but I could tell he didn’t trust me.” Wally glowered. “And when I pressed him, he wouldn’t budge. That guy is more stubborn than ants at a picnic.”

“Furthermore, since everything that points to him as a suspect is circumstantial, I have no way to compel him to tell me.” Wally tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Plus, my hands are tied because I really don’t want to alert him to the fact that he might be a suspect.”

“Well, that stinks.” Skye scratched behind Toby’s ears, causing the little dog’s tail to thump like a metronome and his hind end to wiggle in ecstasy. “On another note, did you get my message about Suzette’s twin?”

“Not so far. Like everything else to do with this case, the light at the end of the tunnel always turns out to be glowing eyes with claws and teeth.” Wally blew out an irritated breath. “Discovering the brother’s identity is turning out to be harder than it should be.”

“I put Quirk on that as soon as I got your message. But since we don’t know where Suzette and her twin were born, he hasn’t had any luck.”

“He’s checking state by state”—Wally’s lips formed a thin line—“starting with Illinois and moving outward. So far, he hasn’t found any male with the last name of Neal who shares Suzette’s birthday.”

“The county crime scene techs have her laptop and are looking through her e-mail and files. And the Nashville police are talking to her friends and neighbors, so maybe they’ll come across someone who can help us identify her brother.” Wally shook his head. “They already searched her apartment and didn’t find anything helpful—no birth certificate or passport or personal correspondence.”

“So if there’s nothing on her computer and none of the people in Nashville know anything, what next?”

“If the name of her son isn’t in Paulette Neal’s file, I’ll try the federal databank.”

“It’s a database of birth records of all fifty states.” Wally frowned. “Unfortunately, budget cuts, red tape, and not having the full name of the person for whom the information is being requested means there’d be a long wait for requests to be processed. It could be more than a month before they get back to us.”

“Oh.” Skye felt frustrated by yet another roadblock; then she had a thought. “Hey, I ran into Simon at the ATM this morning and he mentioned he thought Suzette looked familiar.”

“I won’t hold my breath, but it’s worth a try,” Wally agreed. “I’ll have Martinez run a picture of Suzette over to Reid tomorrow.”

“Good.” Skye opened her mouth to tell Wally that Simon would be dog sitting for her, but decided later might be a better time to reveal that piece of information. Sometime when Wally was more relaxed.

“We need to get Owen’s DNA,” Wally said after a few minutes of silence. “But I don’t want to come right out and ask for it.”

“I really would like to be able to look him in the eye again, without having that nagging doubt in my mind.”

Wally passed a slow-moving combine, waving to the driver. “Too bad there’s no legal way to get his blood without his knowledge.”

“Yeah.” Skye stroked Toby, letting her thoughts wander ; then, as Wally guided the T-bird into the self-storage lot, she blurted, “The Red Cross.”

“The Farm Bureau had a blood drive this past Monday, and Owen always gives.” Skye twisted to look at Wally. “That means, if you can get his blood from them, you don’t need a warrant for it. Once he donates it, he gives up all expectations of privacy.”

“I saw it on some TV program,” Skye admitted. “But surely the show’s writers would have to get something like that correct.”

While Wally made that call, Skye examined the storage facility. It looked a little like a fifties-style motel, albeit a windowless one surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence with razor wire strung across the top.

There appeared to be two types of spaces available: one the size of a single-car garage, and the other twice that large. The siding was a dirty tan, and paint was peeling off the steel doors.

Skye and Wally were parked in front of one of the larger units. She couldn’t see any other vehicles, and the facility was silent except for the sound of Wally’s voice as he talked into his cell phone.

Several minutes later, he clicked the sleek black device shut, exited the T-bird, and opened Skye’s door. “Ready to investigate?”

“Yep.” Skye wiggled out of the low-slung sports car, conscious of her skirt riding up, and asked, “Is it okay to bring Toby inside?”

Once Wally took the key from his pocket and opened the lock, Skye preceded him into the dark interior. It had an eerie, deserted vibe, and she was glad when Wally reached past her and pulled a chain attached to a bare bulb, flooding the room with light.

Now she could see the labyrinth of cardboard boxes surrounding her. The entire unit was stacked with bins, crates, and cartons as far as Skye could see. A narrow path wound through the maze, but Skye could make out only a few feet in front of her.

“Where do we start?” Skye tried to keep her voice even, and not reveal how overwhelmed she felt by the sheer volume of records.

“Let’s do a walk-through.” Wally’s tone was grim. “Maybe there’s some organizational method that isn’t obvious at first glance.”

“Okay.” As Skye navigated the warren, she read the words hand lettered in black on the sides of the boxes. “It looks like they’re arranged by year.”

“That’s something.” Arriving at the back of the space, Wally pulled the chain on another bare bulb, then motioned to a long table against the rear wall. “We can sort through the cartons on this.”

“Sure.” Skye gripped Toby’s leash; he’d begun trying to tug her forward. “I wonder if anyone’s been here since they dropped off the records.”

“I doubt—” Wally broke off and pointed to the floor, then said softly, “I guess they have, and I’d say fairly recently, too.”

A fresh trail of footprints disturbed the thick layer of dust that covered the floor. The prints led away from where Skye and Wally now stood and into an aisle they hadn’t been down yet.

Skye started to reply, but Wally put a finger to his lips and motioned her behind him. He unsnapped his holster and rested his hand on the butt of his gun, then moved forward.

Skye picked up Toby and followed. The cartons near the door bore dates beginning in the 1990s, and as she moved down the second aisle, she saw boxes marked 1980, then 1979.

Wally stopped abruptly. He stood motionless, but everything about his stance screamed that he was on high alert. Suddenly, he tilted his head, and at the sound of a door easing closed, he took off running.

Toby whined and tried to leap from Skye’s arms to follow him, but she tightened her grasp and clamped a hand over the canine’s muzzle. Should she go after Wally? No, better to stay here and not distract him from his pursuit. It wasn’t as if she could run fast enough to catch anyone, not while wearing high heels, a dress, and carrying a dog.

Skye crept forward a few steps and saw papers scattered across the floor. Taking out a bag she’d tucked into her pocket to dispose of any future doggy deposits, she slipped it over her right hand. Using one plastic-covered finger, she fanned out the sheets and glanced through them. They were records concerning a twenty-seven-year-old bicycle theft from the park’s bike rack.

Next, she righted a carton that was lying on its side and saw black Magic Marker numbers scrawled across the edge. She squinted until they came into focus—1978. Underneath the year, MAY—JUNE was written in smaller print.

Glancing around, she noticed an empty file folder crumpled in a corner. She gingerly moved it toward her with the toe of her shoe. A white label across the top read PAULETTE NEAL.