Murder of a Creped Suzette

“Thanks. I decorated it myself.” Jenny gestured to a chair whose cushion was also festooned with apples. “Have a seat. Would you or your puppy like something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” Skye sat. “I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

“Fair enough.” Jenny glanced at the red plastic clock hanging on a soffit over the sink. “Who do you want to know about?”

“The Neals. They lived across the street from you in 1978.” Skye patted Toby, who lay quietly at her feet. “I’m trying to find out the little boy’s name. Do you remember it?”

“Hmm.” Jenny twisted the dishcloth she still held. “Let me think.” She squeezed her eyes shut, then exclaimed, “Suzie! That was the girl.” She tried again but shook her head. “Nope. I can’t recall the boy’s name.” She made a wry face. “Nowadays my mind works like lightning. One brilliant flash and it’s gone.”

“Shoot!”

“Sorry. It was so long ago and the Neals weren’t much for neighboring. The mother never let the kids play outside.”

“Do you think your husband might remember?” Skye asked, crossing her fingers.

“He might have. Henry had a good memory.” Jenny sat back. “But he died last year.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Skye could have bitten her tongue.

“Thank you. The damn fool tried to beat a train across the tracks.” Jenny’s expression was hard to read. “My son moved back in to keep me company.”

“I’m sure that was a blessing.”

“Are you?” Jenny raised an eyebrow. “You know the old saying about setting something free?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it needs to be revised. Because if that something sits on your couch, hogs your TV, eats you out of house and home, and doesn’t seem to understand you set it free, then chances are you gave birth to it.”

Skye chuckled sympathetically. “Is there anyone else on the street who might remember the Neal boy’s name?” Skye asked, then added, “Or can you think of anyone at all who might know it?”

“We’re the only ones who’ve been here for more than five years. The others . . . well, they come and go.” Jenny paused, then leaned forward and whispered, “Quentin Neal’s mistress might know.”

“Who was that?” Skye fought to keep her expression neutral. No one else had mentioned a mistress. Quentin must have been good at keeping secrets.

“I only saw her twice,” Jenny confided. “The first time when she dropped him off in front of the house one afternoon when his wife and the kids weren’t home.”

“Maybe it was just a friend, another teacher, or someone from the choir.”

“Friends don’t spend twenty minutes making out in the front seat.” Jenny crossed her arms. “She drove a fancy Cadillac, and they even disappeared from view a few times. It was real obvious what they were doing in that car, and it wasn’t grading papers or singing solos.”

“How about the second time?”

“Funny. Now that I think about it . . .” Jenny scratched her head. “It was the day of his wife’s accident. In fact, not too long before the ambulance arrived.”

“What did his lover look like?” Skye asked. “Was there anything special about her that you remember? Anything special about the car?”

“Well, she had ash blond hair that she wore in one of those chignon thingies. Plus her clothes looked expensive. And I’d say she was several years older than he was. She seemed real stylish, like she lived in the city, not Scumble River.”

CHAPTER 21

“Friends in Low Places”

Jenny Vanda hadn’t been able to answer any more of Skye’s questions, but she promised to call her if she thought of anything. Next on Skye’s agenda was a stop at the supermarket. After picking up cold cuts, macaroni salad, and more dog food, Skye got into the checkout line.

Ahead of her, paying for his purchases, was the fiddle player from Flint James’s backup band. He looked at Skye, cocked his head as if he should know her, then shrugged and walked away. He appeared to be in his late teens, and Skye certainly hoped Kallista hadn’t told Rex that this boy was her lover.

The pear-shaped young man sacking her purchases peered at each package as he deposited it in the bag. When he handed her the sack, he said, “You know, all this processed food isn’t good for either you or your dog.” He stroked his barely-there goatee. “You really should be eating organic.”

“Thanks for your concern.” Geesh! Since when had the bag boy become a nutritionist?

As Skye drove home, she tried to figure out the identity of the mysterious other woman in Quentin Neal’s life. Still thinking about Jenny Vanda’s information, Skye parked the Bel Air in the garage, left Toby in the car, and carried her groceries into the house.

She fussed over Bingo until he’d had enough affection, then fed him his Fancy Feast. Only then did she return to the Chevy to get Toby and bring him inside. Skye still didn’t quite trust that he and Bingo would coexist peacefully, but he trotted over to his dish, which she quickly filled with Canine Cuisine, and he chowed down without giving the feline a second glance.