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 piece de resistance 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.”
Dante beamed and folded his hands over his considerable stomach.
“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.”
Skye flinched.
“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.
Discouraged, she went to find Wally. The brunch he had in mind had better offer something stronger than champagne.
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.”
“Did Bingo shut off the alarm again?” Wally asked as they strolled into the restaurant.
“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.
Once their drink orders were taken, Wally turned to Skye. “What kept you up past your bedtime?”
“Not what, who. Suzette Neal.”
“The girl singer from the concert.” Wally wrinkled his forehead. “What did she want?”
“Me to solve a murder.”
“What?” Wally cocked a dark brow. “Someone was killed and no one told me?”
“Yeah, right.” Skye chuckled. “No, this happened before you joined the police force.”
“Well, that’s a load off my mind.” Wally pretended to slump in relief. “A cold case.”
They were silent as the server put their drinks in front of them and told them about the brunch.
After he left, Skye said, “Let’s get our first course; then I’ll tell you the rest.”
“Okay.” Wally grinned. “I know a hungry fiancee is a cranky fiancee.”
“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.
Before digging in, Wally asked, “Why did Suzette come to you?”
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.”
“Yep.” Wally licked a bit of cocktail sauce from his finger. “So tell me about the murder.”
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
