Murder of a Creped Suzette

“September first, 1974.”

“That means that even if we eventually searched the birth records in all fifty states, we would have never found your birth certificate.” Wally tapped his chin with his index finger. “Suzette’s DOB was August thirty-first, 1974. You must have been born shortly after midnight.”

“That’s right—at twelve oh two a.m. So I did have a sister.” Jess’s tone was bitter. “All those years that we could have known each other were stolen from us, and now it’s too late.”

“The only way to be certain that you were Suzette’s twin is to compare your DNA to hers,” Wally cautioned.

“Sure,” Jess agreed. He slumped in his chair. “Whatever you need.”

After Jess left to get his cheek swabbed, Skye and Wally went upstairs to his office. Once they were behind closed doors, Wally said, “You agree he had no idea that Suzette was his sister?”

“Absolutely.” Skye pursed her lips. “Unless he’s a sociopath—and I’ve never seen any indication of that—then he was telling the complete truth.”

“That’s my feeling, too.”

“My only question is, how did he end up in Scumble River?” Skye furrowed her brow. “How did he end up with an adoptive mom who was related to someone in town? How did he and Suzette end up back here together ?”

“Maybe”—Wally crossed his arms—“Quentin Neal was friendly with Fayanne when he lived here. And after his wife died, he confided in her when he decided to put the twins up for adoption. Fayanne might then have put him in touch with her cousin, who she knew wanted children but couldn’t have them.”

“That could be it.” Skye nodded. “Come to think of it, I have one more question.” Skye looked sideways at Wally.

“What?”

“Are you upset with me for going to the Brown Bag with Simon?”

“Are you kidding?” Wally hesitated, obviously searching for the right words. “All I ask is that you tell me what you’re doing and why. Which you did. The only time I’d get mad is if you try to hide anything from me.”

“Thank you.” Skye wiped imaginary sweat from her brow. “That’s a relief.”

“Besides, you two found an answer to one of the bigger mysteries surrounding Suzette.”

“We did, didn’t we?” Skye grinned. “Still, I’m relieved you’re okay with what I did.”

Wally was showing Skye how okay he was when the intercom buzzed. He gave her one last lingering kiss, then pushed the button. “Yes?”

“It’s the Dooziers, Chief.” The dispatcher’s voice was resigned. “You better get over there right away. You won’t believe what they’re up to this time.”

CHAPTER 23

“Crazy”

When the dispatcher reported that the Dooziers had opened fire on their neighbors, Skye volunteered to accompany Wally to the scene of the crime. After five years of working at school with the endless supply of Doozier offspring, she had a friendly relationship with the eccentric family—unlike the other law enforcement employees in Scumble River and Stanley County.

Because of that rapport, she was hoping to act as a goodwill ambassador between the cops and the crackpots. But with the Dooziers, a breed unto themselves, there were no guarantees.

They lived by their wits, which should not be mistaken for smarts, and by their own set of rules, which should not be mistaken for what society calls laws. The latter was generally what got them into hot water. The former was generally how they got out without being scalded.

As Wally and Skye drove toward the Doozier property, she recalled a program she had attended her senior year in high school about the history of the town. The speaker had explained that the community had initially been confined to a fork between the two branches of the Scumble River but had eventually spread along both banks and beyond. That overflow was where they were heading now.

Skye remembered the historian talking about the two groups of people currently occupying the acreage along the south bank of the river. The newcomers had moved there from Chicago in the 1980s, and built summer cottages or retirement homes along a forested stretch of land. While these outsiders helped line the pockets of some Scumble Riverites and were welcomed by those town folks, they invaded the privacy of others. The others, who believed a good neighbor was one who lived far enough away to never be seen, were the original settlers known as the Red Raggers—of which the Dooziers were the ruling clan.

For the first couple of years, the interlopers and the Red Raggers had tested each other’s mettle, and eventually an uneasy alliance had been formed. Apparently, since shots had now been fired, that peace treaty must have been breached. Skye hoped it could be renegotiated without bloodshed.

Wally turned the squad car onto Cattail Path. They were entering Red Ragger country, and the first property they came to belonged to the Dooziers. It was shaped roughly like a right triangle, with the hypotenuse resting along the riverbank and the house situated at the smallest point. From the road, Wally and Skye could see only this tip, and from that limited vantage point there was no evidence of any disturbance.

But Skye wasn’t reassured. She was fairly certain the real action was taking place in the woods to the side of the house, as this was the land where the shortest leg of the triangle formed the boundary between the Dooziers and their nearest neighbor.

Wally parked and said to Skye, “Keep behind me until we know what’s going on.”

“Definitely.” The Dooziers might be her friends, but there was always the danger of getting shot by accident. And Wally was the one wearing the Kevlar vest.

He got out of the cruiser and Skye followed suit. The uneven ground in front of the run-down shack was covered with weeds and rocks. The carcasses of junked pickups, shells of old appliances, and a recently acquired troop of garden gnomes added to the obstacle course and forced them to pick their way gingerly toward the backyard.

At the gate, a crooked sign painted on a flattened carton read:

Paintball Advenchore!

Gauranteed Fun! Fun! Fun!

Yer very own rifle, shotgun, or uzi!

$5.00 fur haf hour/$25.00 fur haf day.

Skye was not surprised that the names of the weapons were among the few words the Dooziers had spelled correctly.

She and Wally peered over the fence. Several feet back, where the yard merged into the wooded area, a folding table with a pyramid of guns piled in the center teetered on crooked legs. Sitting with his cowboy boots propped up on the table’s surface was a skinny, densely tattooed man wearing a pair of jeans and several ammo belts crisscrossed over his bare chest. A camo bandanna tied around his head had slipped down over the upper third of his face, and empty beer cans were strewn next to his lawn chair like shiny red and silver leaves surrounding a scrawny maple tree.

Skye closed her eyes, praying it was all a hallucination. She could think of no positive outcome in a scenario that included a drunken Earl Doozier pretending to be Rambo.

Skye glanced at Wally and whispered, “What now?” It was never a good idea to startle an armed Doozier, especially an inebriated one.

Wally tried the gate; it was unlocked. Clearing his throat, he stepped over the metal threshold and said, “Earl, are you awake?”

A snore that sounded like a backfiring leaf blower erupted from Earl’s open mouth, and he screwed up his face, then turned away from them.

“Earl?” Wally inched closer and raised his voice. “Wake up, Earl.”