Murder of a Creped Suzette

“The Farm Bureau had a blood drive this past Monday, and Owen always gives.” Skye twisted to look at Wally. “That means, if you can get his blood from them, you don’t need a warrant for it. Once he donates it, he gives up all expectations of privacy.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw it on some TV program,” Skye admitted. “But surely the show’s writers would have to get something like that correct.”

“Maybe.” Wally sounded unconvinced. “I’ll check with the city attorney.”

While Wally made that call, Skye examined the storage facility. It looked a little like a fifties-style motel, albeit a windowless one surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence with razor wire strung across the top.

There appeared to be two types of spaces available: one the size of a single-car garage, and the other twice that large. The siding was a dirty tan, and paint was peeling off the steel doors.

Skye and Wally were parked in front of one of the larger units. She couldn’t see any other vehicles, and the facility was silent except for the sound of Wally’s voice as he talked into his cell phone.

Several minutes later, he clicked the sleek black device shut, exited the T-bird, and opened Skye’s door. “Ready to investigate?”

“Yep.” Skye wiggled out of the low-slung sports car, conscious of her skirt riding up, and asked, “Is it okay to bring Toby inside?”

“Sure. There’s nothing in there he can hurt.”

Once Wally took the key from his pocket and opened the lock, Skye preceded him into the dark interior. It had an eerie, deserted vibe, and she was glad when Wally reached past her and pulled a chain attached to a bare bulb, flooding the room with light.

Now she could see the labyrinth of cardboard boxes surrounding her. The entire unit was stacked with bins, crates, and cartons as far as Skye could see. A narrow path wound through the maze, but Skye could make out only a few feet in front of her.

“Where do we start?” Skye tried to keep her voice even, and not reveal how overwhelmed she felt by the sheer volume of records.

“Let’s do a walk-through.” Wally’s tone was grim. “Maybe there’s some organizational method that isn’t obvious at first glance.”

“Okay.” As Skye navigated the warren, she read the words hand lettered in black on the sides of the boxes. “It looks like they’re arranged by year.”

“That’s something.” Arriving at the back of the space, Wally pulled the chain on another bare bulb, then motioned to a long table against the rear wall. “We can sort through the cartons on this.”

“Sure.” Skye gripped Toby’s leash; he’d begun trying to tug her forward. “I wonder if anyone’s been here since they dropped off the records.”

“I doubt—” Wally broke off and pointed to the floor, then said softly, “I guess they have, and I’d say fairly recently, too.”

A fresh trail of footprints disturbed the thick layer of dust that covered the floor. The prints led away from where Skye and Wally now stood and into an aisle they hadn’t been down yet.

Skye started to reply, but Wally put a finger to his lips and motioned her behind him. He unsnapped his holster and rested his hand on the butt of his gun, then moved forward.

Skye picked up Toby and followed. The cartons near the door bore dates beginning in the 1990s, and as she moved down the second aisle, she saw boxes marked 1980, then 1979.

Wally stopped abruptly. He stood motionless, but everything about his stance screamed that he was on high alert. Suddenly, he tilted his head, and at the sound of a door easing closed, he took off running.

Toby whined and tried to leap from Skye’s arms to follow him, but she tightened her grasp and clamped a hand over the canine’s muzzle. Should she go after Wally? No, better to stay here and not distract him from his pursuit. It wasn’t as if she could run fast enough to catch anyone, not while wearing high heels, a dress, and carrying a dog.

Skye crept forward a few steps and saw papers scattered across the floor. Taking out a bag she’d tucked into her pocket to dispose of any future doggy deposits, she slipped it over her right hand. Using one plastic-covered finger, she fanned out the sheets and glanced through them. They were records concerning a twenty-seven-year-old bicycle theft from the park’s bike rack.

Next, she righted a carton that was lying on its side and saw black Magic Marker numbers scrawled across the edge. She squinted until they came into focus—1978. Underneath the year, MAY—JUNE was written in smaller print.

Glancing around, she noticed an empty file folder crumpled in a corner. She gingerly moved it toward her with the toe of her shoe. A white label across the top read PAULETTE NEAL.

CHAPTER 17

“Hey Good Lookin’”