Murder of a Creped Suzette

series ever written? Suzette had probably never read Trixie Belden mysteries or Cherry Ames novels, either. Granted they weren’t modern, but then neither was Shakespeare.

“Who told you I was the small-town Nancy Drew?” Skye hoped the Star hadn’t run another story about her. The local newspaper tended to exaggerate her part in solving crimes. She’d been relieved that her name hadn’t been mentioned in connection with Scumble River’s past few murder investigations, especially the last one. As far as she knew, there hadn’t been any articles lately; someone, aka her mother, would definitely have mentioned them.

“He . . . she . . . the person asked me not to say.” Suzette took a sip from the cup Skye had placed in front of her.

Skye waited for the singer to continue, and when she didn’t, asked, “So what do you need a detective for?”

“Before we get to that, I need for you to promise you won’t tell anyone anything I say.” Suzette stared imploringly at Skye.

“I’ll keep the information confidential.” Skye sat opposite the young woman. “Except from my fiance, who’s the chief of police and very discreet.” Once Suzette nodded, Skye added, “And if there comes a time when I think that not revealing the information will cause someone physical harm. Then I’ll have no choice but to break confidentiality, because I won’t let someone get hurt.”

“I guess I can live with that.” Suzette bit her thumbnail. “I need for you to help me look into the circumstances surrounding a death that occurred in Scumble River twenty-seven years ago.”

“Why are you interested in something that happened before you were born?”

“Well, that’s one of the most crucial secrets.” Suzette licked her lips. “I’m actually not twenty-two. I’m nearly thirty.” She took a breath. “Which is why I had to slip away this afternoon. There was someone I needed to talk to about this death, but I can’t let Rex know I’m interested or he’ll figure out how old I am.”

“Oh.” Skye didn’t have to ask why the singer was lying about her age. Youth was an important currency in the entertainment business. “Still, what connection to the deceased do you have?”

“The woman was my mother.”

“I’m so sorry.” Skye patted Suzette’s hand. The sadness in the singer’s voice brought a lump to Skye’s throat. “How did she die?”

“The official report says she slipped in the bathtub and hit her head.”

“But you don’t believe that.” Skye studied the young woman. She was deeply touched by Suzette’s air of vulnerability.

“No, I don’t.” Suzette’s puppylike brown eyes hardened. “I was there when it happened, playing in my bedroom. And I have this vague memory of a lot of screaming and then a door slamming.”

“I take it no one believed you?” Skye could just picture the adults discounting a three-year-old’s account of events.

“My dad always said I was too young to remember anything.”

“Does he still feel that way?” Skye wondered if perhaps Suzette’s dad had been the one she heard screaming at her mom, and that’s why he had tried to convince his daughter it was all in her imagination.

“He was killed in a car crash a couple of years ago.” Suzette swallowed hard, then continued. “After Mom died, he quit his job and joined the army. He was completely overwhelmed by the idea of taking care of me. I was raised by his aunt in California and I rarely saw or heard from my father.” Suzette’s voice was low. “My aunt said that Dad seemed to feel as if he didn’t deserve to have any love or happiness in his life.”

“Your aunt sounds like a special lady.”

“She was.” Suzette smiled tearfully. “In every way that mattered, she was both a father and mother to me. She passed away when I was in college.”

“You’ve had a lot of losses in your life, two of them from accidents.” Skye paused to form her next question carefully. “Do you think that might be why you want to believe your mom’s death wasn’t some random occurrence? That there was meaning to it? Someone besides God to blame?”

“No.” Suzette shook her head so vigorously that her hair, which she had piled on top of her head, slipped free from the large tortoiseshell clip securing it. “I know what I heard. Someone else was at the house that day, and I want to find out if that’s who murdered my mom.”

CHAPTER 5

“Sunday Morning Coming Down”

As Skye got ready for church the next morning, she thought about Suzette’s plea for help. The singer had seemed so alone in the world. It wouldn’t be that difficult for Skye to read over the police file and chat with a few of the locals who might remember Mr. and Mrs. Neal, especially Mrs. Neal’s fatal accident. But, for once, Skye would seriously consider getting involved before she rushed to someone’s assistance.

If she agreed to help Suzette, she didn’t want to regret that decision. And truth be told, Skye didn’t hold high hopes that anyone would recall much about the couple. They had lived in Scumble River for less than a year, a long time ago. However, Skye knew good and well that if the townsfolk did have any knowledge of the incident, they would talk to her a lot more easily than they would to a stranger.

Skye had agreed to consider looking into Mrs. Neal’s death, and promised Suzette an answer by Monday afternoon. The singer had suggested Skye pick her up at the barn-to-theater remodel site, where Rex had set up a mobile office, as Suzette would be spending most of her time there.

After Mass, Skye sat in the parking lot and pressed the various buttons required to listen to the message on her cell phone.

Finally, she heard Wally’s voice say, “Hi, darlin’. With all the drunk and disorderly arrests last night, I need to do a heap of paperwork this morning, so instead of coming to the house, meet me at the police station after Mass. We’ll go to brunch from there.”

She smiled. Wally was such a hard worker. Scumble River was lucky to have him. He could easily get a job in a bigger, better-paying, and more prestigious department. Thank goodness, money clearly wasn’t his number one priority or he’d be in Texas working for his father, the owner of a multimillion-dollar oil company.

When Skye arrived at the police station shortly after eleven a.m., she was surprised to find the parking lot nearly full. Scumble River’s PD occupied one side of a two-story redbrick edifice. A tiny lobby, the dispatcher’s work space, an interrogation room, and a couple of cubicles equipped with built-in desks, computers, and phones were located on the main level, a rarely used holding cell occupied part of the basement, and Wally’s office was on the second floor. The other half of the building held the city hall, town library, and mayor’s office.

There was no one behind the counter when Skye pushed through the frosted-glass door. The Scumble River police, fire, and emergency departments shared a common dispatcher who covered the phones and radios and handled paperwork for the officers. During the week, three women, including Skye’s mother, May, worked thirty hours each, rotating between the afternoon and midnight shifts. A fourth woman worked straight days. Two additional younger women worked the weekend shifts, but Skye could never remember their names. They were part-timers in a position where people rarely lasted more than a year before finding a better-paying, less stressful job.

Skye used her key to let herself into the back of the station. Where was everyone? She walked down a narrow hall toward the combination coffee-interrogation room and peered through the window. The dispatcher was sitting with a female suspect as an officer interviewed the woman. Ah. That explained the deserted reception counter.

Figuring that Wally was probably in his office, Skye mounted the steep steps to the second floor. As she neared the top, she heard voices. She’d paused, not wanting to interrupt Wally if he was with someone, when a round of clapping rang out. Hmm. The police chief seldom received applause.

Skye tilted her head, listening. Ah. The sound was coming from the mayor’s new office, not Wally’s. A couple of weeks ago, Dante had had an opening cut between the city hall and the police department, taking a part of the library in order to construct a larger office for himself. Her uncle must be holding a meeting, which was why there were so many cars in the parking lot.