Murder of a Creped Suzette (2 page)

Scumble River is not a real town. The characters and events portrayed in these pages are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to living persons is pure coincidence.

“Walking the Floor Over You”

S
kye Denison had to admit that Flint James was hot. Neither the engagement ring on her finger nor her utter aversion to sports of any kind altered the fact that the pro quarterback turned country singer looked like a Greek statue—if statues wore cowboy hats, had smoky whiskey-colored eyes, and sported really good tans.

Flint leaned on the side railing of Scumble River Park’s newly constructed grandstand, gazing at the early evening sky. The rising star appeared unconcerned about whatever was transpiring at the back of the stage, where a cluster of guys wearing jeans, T-shirts, and baseball caps surrounded a man dressed in an expensive country-western-style suit.

To Skye, the group of men looked like the featured critters in a Whac-A-Mole game—first one head would pop up, scan the audience, and duck back down; then another and another, before starting the process all over again. It was obvious that something was wrong, but what? While the others appeared merely irritated, Mr. Suit looked apoplectic.

According to the liberally distributed flyers, the program was supposed to start at six thirty. It was already a quarter to seven, and although the park was ablaze with lights and there were amplifiers scattered around the stage’s perimeter, nothing was happening.

Perhaps the out-of-towners didn’t understand how much the good citizens of Scumble River valued punctuality, but Skye knew that if something didn’t happen soon, people would begin to leave. Small-town Illinoisans considered arriving fifteen minutes early as the equivalent of being on time, the stated hour as barely acceptable, and anything afterward as intolerably late.

The only thing that might persuade everyone to hang around was the complimentary refreshments. An open bar tended to keep most Scumble Riverites happy for quite a while.

Skye fanned herself with the old grocery list she had found in the pocket of her khaki capris and watched for her fiancé, Wally Boyd. As chief of police, he was on duty tonight.

Usually he wouldn’t be working on a Saturday night, but the entire Scumble River police force—six full-time officers and two part-timers—was patrolling this event. An affair like this one needed all the crowd control available. It wasn’t often that a celebrity like Flint James performed anywhere near Scumble River, let alone at a free concert.

Which brought up a good question. Why? Why would Flint James agree to come to the middle of nowhere and sing, especially without charging for tickets?

As Skye slapped at a gnat buzzing around her ear, she caught sight of her uncle, the mayor. Dante Leofanti was seated front and center on something resembling a red canvas throne. It had a canopy, a table attached to the arm, and even a footrest. His wife, Olive, sat by his side in a smaller version of the same elaborate chair, although hers was baby blue.

Skye narrowed her eyes. Nothing happened in the mayor’s town without his knowledge and permission. Dante must have approved the use of the park, the permit to build the grandstand, and the authorization to serve alcohol. He would certainly know why Flint James was singing here, but did Skye care enough to go over there and ask him? No. Dante treated information like a commodity, and she didn’t want to be in his debt.

More to the point, she really didn’t
need
to know. There was an extremely fine line between concerned and nosy, and because Skye suffered from curiosity overdrive she usually erred on the wrong side of that line. But not this time.

She wasn’t on duty as either the town’s school psychologist or the police department’s psychological consultant. She was just at the concert to hear some good music and have fun with her friends. Whatever was going on was not her problem. For once she would mind her own business.

Speaking of friends, where was Trixie? Skye’s BFF, Trixie Frayne, and Trixie’s husband, Owen, were supposed to have shown up half an hour ago. Skye checked her cell phone. It was on—she often forgot to power it up—but she didn’t have any messages, so her friend hadn’t tried to reach her.

Skye attempted to call Trixie, but got her voice mail. After leaving a message asking Trixie and Owen to meet her by the refreshment stand, Skye threaded her way through the crowd looking for them.

While she walked, Skye dug through her purse for a barrette, desperate to get her humidity-frizzed chestnut curls out of her face. The freshly ironed white sleeveless blouse she had put on just before leaving home was now wrinkled and limp, clinging to her ample curves like a damp shower curtain. Autumn had begun three weeks earlier, but the unusually high temperature made it feel like it was still the dog days of summer.

Skye considered giving up on Trixie and Owen and going home. She could relax in the air-conditioning, watch a movie, and spend some quality time with her cat. Although she liked country music, without Wally or her friends the concert wouldn’t be much fun.

Besides, she wasn’t fond of outdoor events unless the weather was perfect—a circumstance rarely found in the Midwest, where it was often necessary to switch from the heat to the A/C and vice versa on the same day.

Still, when you lived in the same small town where you grew up, worked in public education, and were engaged to the police chief, it was a good idea to show your face at social gatherings. And Skye had finally admitted that she did want to be a part of the community. It had taken her a while, but after five years she recognized that moving back to Scumble River, despite its rigid sense of right and wrong, had been a good decision.

Given the choice, she would stay in her hometown for the rest of her life. Too bad this evening was beginning to feel like it would last at least that long.

Skye had reached the edge of the lawn-chair-and-blanket-seated audience without spotting her friends. Where in the heck were they? She ground her teeth.
Shoot!
Not only was there no sign of Trixie and Owen, but now she needed to find a bathroom—fast.

Unfortunately, both Port-a-Potties had lengthy lines and Skye was fairly sure she couldn’t wait for her turn. On to plan B. There were bathrooms in the picnic area located behind the grandstand at the far end of the park. With any luck, no one would have thought of them.

Skye took off at a brisk trot, but a few steps from her goal, she was stopped by a red plastic ribbon strung between several sawhorses. A large white sign with black lettering read:

Crap!
There was no time to come up with a plan C. If she didn’t get to a toilet soon, she would embarrass herself big-time. Skye looked around. A silver Airstream with COUNTRY ROADS TOUR painted on its side was pulled in front of the bathroom, but there wasn’t anyone in sight. She stopped and listened. It was completely quiet. Excellent. She’d be in and out with no one the wiser.

Skye ducked under the ribbon, paused for a nanosecond, then darted toward her objective. Arriving a little out of breath, she found that the trailer was parked so close to the building she could barely get the screen door halfway open. She squeezed through the gap and sighed with relief when she saw the empty stalls.

A few minutes later, Skye was washing her hands when she heard angry voices coming from inside the RV.
Yikes!
She had to get out of there before she was discovered and arrested. Wouldn’t that be a delightful headline: Chief’s Fiancée Arrested for Using Forbidden Bathroom.

Skye plastered herself against the wall, willing herself to become invisible, which was a stretch considering her opulent figure. She snuck a quick look through the doorway. A large open window was situated directly across from the bathroom’s entrance. Why in the heck didn’t they have the air-conditioning on and their windows closed like normal people?

While waiting for her hair appointment last week, she had read in
Entertainment Weekly
that some singers disliked A/C because they thought it was bad for their vocal cords, but this was ridiculous. It was close to ninety degrees and muggy; surely those conditions couldn’t be good for anyone, even a star’s delicate throat.

Skye shook her head. Why didn’t matter. The window was open, and if she tried to leave now, the suit-wearing guy from the stage who was talking heatedly to Flint James would see her and call the police.

Taking another peek, Skye noted that Flint’s usually handsome face was an ugly scarlet mask, his broad shoulders were rigid, and his hands were fisted. His previous air of indifference was gone, and it looked as if he was itching to punch the other man in the face.

The ex-quarterback had a good five inches and fifty pounds of muscle on Mr. Suit, and could easily cause some real damage to the other guy. Flint might even kill him if the blow landed in exactly the right spot.

Should she call Wally? Make her presence known? Skye wavered. Maybe it was a guy thing, and she would just get herself in trouble if she interfered. A good time to keep your mouth shut was when you were in deep water, and she’d promised herself she would stop rushing in to help people who hadn’t asked for her assistance. Then again, she didn’t want anyone to get hurt.

Before she could decide, Mr. Suit’s booming voice brought her attention back to the two men. “We have no choice. Suzette isn’t here and we can’t reach her. We have to get this show on the road.”

“That’s not my problem, Rex.” Flint jabbed Mr. Suit, aka Rex, in the chest. “The star does not go on first. And I’m the star.”

Obviously the opening act was MIA. Skye wrinkled her brow, trying to remember what she had heard about Suzette Neal. All she knew about the girl singer was her age—twenty-two—and that she had lived in the area as a child, although no one Skye had spoken to had recognized Suzette’s name or claimed her as kin.

“It’s more than half an hour since we were supposed to start the program.” Rex grabbed Flint’s shoulder. “I order you to get your ass onstage and sing.”

“No.” Flint shook off Rex’s hand as if it were an annoying insect. “Check my contract. You can’t force me to perform out of order.”

“Do it this one time and I’ll make it worth your while.” Rex’s tone turned cajoling. “This concert is no big deal. Just a freebie to get the locals on our side. I promise it will be good for us both.”

“That’s what Suzette wants. You already gave her one of my best songs—one I wanted to sing myself—and you forced me to do a duet with her.” Flint crossed his arms. “Don’t think I’m not onto her schemes.”

“You’re not the only one who’s onto her.” A blonde dressed in skintight jeans, a red sequined tank top, and crimson stilettos pushed her way between Flint and Rex.

Skye shrank back against the wall. She hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the Airstream.

Cocking her thumb at Rex, the woman said, “I warned him about that girl. I told him I didn’t trust her as far as I could run in high heels.”

“Kallista, sweetheart.” Rex sandwiched the blonde’s fingers between both of his palms. “I’m sure something terrible must have happened to keep Suzette away. You know she was dying to sing for her hometown and show everyone how far she’s come.”

“She probably isn’t even really from this place.” Kallista blew an irritated breath through heavily glossed lips. “She only said she was after you told her you’d decided to open the new country music theater here.”

Skye blinked. A country music theater in Scumble River? How would people react to that? They generally didn’t like change, but a theater smacked of money and glamour, so maybe they’d be tempted.

“Now, baby girl, how about you do your big daddy an itty-bitty favor and go back in the bedroom and try calling Suzette again? Then later tonight your big daddy will do you just how you like.” Rex turned Kallista around and patted her on the rear until she started walking.

Ew, ew, ew.
That was just icky. Why did men talk like that to grown women?

Skye squirmed, but focused back on the action when Rex said to Flint, “You have to help me out here. I thought you were a team player.”

“Right. And what did that get me last time? A blown knee and a ruined career.” Flint shook his head. “Now I’m looking out for number one.”

“With that attitude, I don’t know how you fool all your fans into thinking you’re such a nice guy.”

“Really?” Flint let out a scornful huff. “You’re the one who taught me that sincerity is everything, and once you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”

Rex ignored Flint’s jab. “You seem to be forgetting that you’re my creation.” Rex snapped off each word as if they were bites of peanut brittle. “Without me you’d still be singing at a honky-tonk, living in your truck, and depending on the tips from a pickled-egg jar to eat.”

“Don’t give me that crap. We both know you didn’t do me any favors.” Flint spat out the words contemptuously. “If I hadn’t been a damn good singer and songwriter, you wouldn’t have raised a finger to help me.”

“There’s more to success in this business than talent,” Rex retaliated, his voice rising.

“Bullshit!” Flint leaned down until he was nose to nose with the smaller man. “Now find that little whore and get her out onstage before I really get mad.” He grasped Rex’s lapels and lifted him off his feet. “I’m not letting you or her ruin my career.”

Yikes!
Skye whipped out her cell phone. It was time to call the cops.

“Seven-Year Ache”

B
efore Skye had finished dialing Wally’s number, a dusty black pickup pulled perpendicular to the Airstream. She craned her neck around the doorway and watched a young woman dressed in a ruffled denim miniskirt, a pink stretch-lace, off-the-shoulder top, and pink cowboy boots bolt out of the truck before it had completely stopped moving.