Murder of a Creped Suzette

Now that Skye had decided to help Suzette, she was eager to get started, and had come up with a list of questions:

1. What was the time of death?

2. When did Mrs. Neal usually take her bath?

3. Where did the Neal family live?

4. Did anyone remember Mr. and Mrs. Neal having marriage troubles?

5. Where did Mr. Neal work?

6. Was Mrs. Neal a stay-at-home mom?

7. Did they have any relatives in town?

With the file currently unavailable, her only source of information was whatever details the singer could remember about her family.

Although a useless trip would be annoying, at least the dairy farm wasn’t far. As Skye turned the Bel Air onto Maryland Street, she could only hope that Suzette wanted to find her mother’s killer enough to stick around, even if everyone else had left.

The Hutton dairy farm was located midway between Scumble River and the neighboring towns of Brooklyn and Clay Center, in an area Scumble River had annexed a couple of years ago, when the mayor promised the town that a trucking depot would purchase the land. That deal had fallen through, much to Dante’s chagrin.

After Skye passed Great Expectations, the hair salon her brother owned, and the medical building across from Vince’s shop, the scenery became rural. There were a few houses along the way, but they were separated by acres of corn and soybeans.

During the summer and fall, when the crops were mature, those residents had complete privacy. Their neighbors couldn’t see their homes or vice versa. If Rex Taylor’s plans came to fruition, these people would lose that prized seclusion.

Hmm. Didn’t Theresa Dugan live out here? That would sure explain the normally serene teacher’s meltdown at the PTO meeting. Nothing like a personal stake in the situation to transform someone into a community activist.

Skye wondered how many farmers and homeowners would sell out to the music promoter. She was thankful that her family’s land was on the other side of Scumble River, and would be of little interest to Mr. Taylor.

Just before she reached the I-55 exit, an old sign advertising the defunct dairy loomed up on her right. As Skye pulled onto the rutted dirt road, she noted a pair of decrepit wooden gates lying on the ground, an uncomfortable reminder that agriculture’s heyday was long gone. After Skye bumped down the lane for a quarter of a mile, the buildings came into view.

The once white clapboard farmhouse was situated on the left side of the property, separated from the other structures by a neglected yard and a detached garage with a large gravel rectangle in front of the doors. A row of overgrown evergreen bushes had completely blocked the front porch. The grass was nearly thigh high, and a lawn ornament, a rusted windmill, spun madly in the wind that had kicked up.

Through the sheeting raindrops, Skye could barely make out the beginning of the makeover from farm to theater. All the work seemed to be on the exterior of the milking barn and the area around it, which was being turned into a parking lot. The other buildings—house, garage, and silos—appeared untouched.

A gleaming white Winnebago had been installed next to the driveway, which was empty of cars. Sheesh! It looked as if everyone had left for the day, just as she had feared.

Skye parked the Bel Air as close to the trailer as possible and reached into the backseat for her umbrella. She waited for the downpour to let up, then ran to the Winnebago’s door. Sitting on the metal step was a small white dog wearing a hot pink collar studded with rhinestones. It whined when she approached.

The canine was so wet and bedraggled, Skye couldn’t tell if it was a purebred or not, but she could see that it was male. She held out her hand, and the dog sniffed, then leaned against her knee. The heart-shaped silver tag on his collar was inscribed with the name Toby.

Fighting the wind, which was endeavoring to snatch the umbrella from Skye’s grasp, she tried to flip the tag over to see if there was owner information on the back, but the little dog danced out of her reach. Next she attempted to pick him up, thinking he probably belonged to one of the Country Roads staff, but he dodged her hands and darted between her legs.

Skye called after him, “Here, Toby. Come on, boy. I’ll take you somewhere dry.”

Toby stopped, blinked his dark brown eyes, and yipped, then loped toward the barn.

Skye hesitated. Should she go after the dog? No. It would probably be better to find Toby’s owner, as he or she would have an easier time persuading the canine to come in out of the rain.

Turning back, Skye tried the door. It was locked. Hmm. Maybe if Suzette was out here alone, she felt unsafe. Skye knocked. Nothing. She knocked again, then put her ear to the door to listen, but she couldn’t hear a thing.

Raising her voice, she yelled, “Suzette, it’s Skye.”

There was no answer. She shouted even louder with the same results. Irritation prompted her to grab the knob and rattle the door. Still no answer.