Murder of a Creped Suzette

Not far from the monarch’s throne, a dozen or so spectators circled two women who were stripping off their clothes to the song “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” which was blaring from a boom box nearby. Once the exhibitionists were down to their bras and panties, the bystanders cheering them on tossed each lady a can of Aqua Net—apparently the only weapons available. Once they had drenched each other with the hairspray, the women squirted the onlookers until the canisters were empty.

Immediately two gentlemen from the audience handed each woman a pillow. They turned back-to-back, paced off ten steps, turned, and ran at each other. A few smacks and the pillows began to tear. Soon feathers filled the air and Skye quickly moved away before she started sneezing.

She was walking near the riverbank when she spotted several guys, some clad in boxer shorts and others in tighty whities, attempting to jump into the river but being kept at bay by most of the Scumble River police force. It looked like an adult version of the game Red Rover, Red Rover. As one of the wannabe swimmers ran at the line of cops and was driven back into the group, another of the aspiring skinny-dippers would try to break through the wall of officers and leap into the water.

The would-be bathers were either drunk past the point of all survival instincts or not from Scumble River, because the locals all knew that the dam caused dangerous currents, and attempting to swim off the park’s shore was a good way to commit suicide.

Sending up a heartfelt prayer that none of the revelers would manage to slip past the cops, Skye continued toward her car. She knew that tomorrow they would all be as hungover as a sheet on the clothesline, but better a raging headache than a trip to the morgue.

Scumble River Park was a small finger of land that extended into the river for a half mile or so. It was usually accessible by car from Maryland Street, but that entrance had been blocked for the concert and people had been directed to leave their vehicles next door at the Up A Lazy River Motor Court.

The last stretch of her hike to the motor court’s parking lot was deserted, and Skye thankfully crossed the footbridge and climbed into her trusty aqua and white’57 Bel Air convertible.

Even though she lived north of the city limits along the west branch of the Scumble River, the drive home took less than ten minutes. Then again, most trips around Scumble River and its environs took less than ten minutes. With a population only a shade over three thousand, the town didn’t cover many miles.

A couple of years ago Skye had inherited the Griggs house, as the old two-story white edifice would always be called, and she had been renovating it ever since. Tonight, as she steered her car through the twin redbrick columns at the end of the driveway, she admired the newly restored wrought-iron gates. When she had first moved into the house, the gates had lain rusting in the weeds. The ornate double Gs entwined in the center were a gloomy reminder that the previous owner, Alma Griggs, had begun her married life there as an affluent wife and died a poverty-stricken widow. By refurbishing the property, Skye felt she was giving Mrs. Griggs the memorial she deserved.

At the end of the long driveway, Skye first turned the Bel Air to the right, then spun the wheel around and pulled into the left side of the detached two-car garage. She had finally sold the ancient Lincoln Continental that had occupied the other half for over a year. Skye had found the car, like a lot of Mrs. Griggs’s possessions, hard to relinquish. She wasn’t sure why she felt such an attachment to the old woman’s belongings, but she did.

Once Skye was out on the sidewalk, the halogen pole lamp she’d had installed near the driveway provided a circle of illumination that extended all the way to her front door. It made the short trip from her car to her house feel safer, and having helped the police solve several murders, Skye was usually more alert to her surroundings than the average Scumble Riverite.

Tonight, however, her mind was on Rex Taylor’s announcement and Skye was lost in thought as she mounted the porch steps. On autopilot, she approached the front door and inserted the key in the lock. But before she could turn it, a loud squeak followed by footsteps penetrated her reverie. She whirled around, staring into the darkness until a slight figure stepped into the pool of light.

“Oh, my God!” Skye gasped. “You scared the life out of me. What are you doing here?”

CHAPTER 4

“Behind Closed Doors”

“I’m so sorry.” Skye’s uninvited guest clasped her I hands to her chest, putting her breasts in danger of breaking free of her tank top’s plunging neckline. “I’m Suzette Neal. One of the singers with the Country Roads Tour.”

“I know.” Skye noted that the petite woman had changed into nylon shorts and sneakers. “I was at the concert and enjoyed your performance very much.”