Murder of a Creped Suzette

That left the church choir, which had practiced every Wednesday night for as long as Skye could remember. And since Paulette didn’t participate, it was the perfect place for Quentin to make a love connection.

Skye finished the housework by ten thirty, and after showering and dressing in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, she settled in to make some calls. Several of her aunts and cousins currently sang in the choir, so she just had to find a relative who had been a member twenty-seven years ago and remembered an elegant blonde who drove a Caddy. Easy peasy, right?

Although Aunt Minnie hadn’t been able to think of any sophisticated fair-haired women in the choir around 1978, she had promised to keep trying. Skye had just said good-bye to her aunt when the phone rang again, and hoping Minnie had thought of a name, she scooped up the receiver without checking the caller ID.

“Skye,” Simon’s voice surprised her. “I may have figured out why Suzette looked familiar. Who she reminded me of.”

“Great.” Skye reached for her pen and a legal pad. “Who is it?”

“I’d rather not say until I’m certain.” Simon’s tone was cautious.

“So why did you call me?” Skye tried not to sound impatient.

“I want to see if you agree that this person resembles Suzette.”

“Then I need to know who we’re talking about.” What was up? Simon wasn’t usually this unsure of himself.

Simon paused for a couple of seconds, then said, “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go over to the Brown Bag. You look at everyone there and tell me if any of them reminds you of Suzette.”

“You want me to go to a bar with you? At noon on a Saturday? Here in Scumble River?” Skye’s voice grew more incredulous with each question. This excursion sounded suspiciously like a date, albeit not a typical one for Simon to plan, but still a date. Wally would have a fit if word got back to him. “I can’t do that. Just tell me who you think it is.”

“No,” Simon argued. “I’m sure this person will be there. And I want to see if you can pick him or her out.”

“I don’t have anyone to watch Toby.” Which was true, but also a good excuse.

“It’s a nice day. We can leave him in the car. We’ll roll down the window a little, make sure he has water, and give him a rawhide chew.” Simon’s voice was firm. “He’ll be okay for the ten or so minutes we’ll be inside the bar.”

Skye felt backed into a corner. Simon was right—the weather had warmed up since yesterday, and a high of seventy was predicted. Toby would be fine. Not to mention that Simon was incredibly stubborn and would never give her a name unless he was sure of what he was saying.

“Okay.” Skye hoped that as long as she told Wally beforehand, it would be all right.

“Good. I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

As soon as Simon disconnected, Skye punched in the number of Wally’s cell. When she got his voice mail, she hesitated, wondering if she should try his house or his private line at the police station, then realized that leaving a message was the perfect solution. She could inform Wally of what she was about to do, thus not keeping secrets from him, but he couldn’t tell her not to accompany Simon. Skye told herself that getting a lead on Suzette’s killer was too important to allow petty jealousy to get in her way.

After all, Wally had no reason to be upset. She was just doing her job.

When Skye and Simon arrived at the Brown Bag, half a dozen guys were lined up on barstools watching a football game. The enormous wall-mounted flat-screen TV showed every grain of dirt and drop of sweat in full high-definition detail, and the men at the bar cheered when blood shot out of a tight end’s nose.

The tavern’s only other occupants were a group of women wearing elaborate hats. They were seated across the room around two tables that had been pushed together. Half-empty pitchers of margaritas and strawberry daiquiris were within easy reach, and the ladies were sipping from brimming glasses.

The guys’ attention was glued to the screen, but the women began whispering the moment Skye and Simon entered. Skye knew most of the ladies, and almost all of them were friends of her mother and aunts. Yikes! If she didn’t do something fast, they’d be on the phone to May before their next drink was poured.

After telling Simon to go ahead and sit down, Skye stopped at the women’s table and said, “Good afternoon, ladies.” She needed to do damage control right now, before the gossip grapevine was harvested. “Are you having a meeting?”

“Why, yes,” answered Hilda Quinn, wearing what looked like a birdcage on the top of her head. “The Mad Hatters come here once a month.”

“Right.” Skye tilted her head. “I remember Aunt Minnie mentioning your club.”

“I’m trying to get her and your mom to join, but both of them say they’re too busy.” Hilda tsked. “The women in your family seem to be always working. Is that true of you, too, dear?” She darted a glance at Simon, who had taken a seat at the far end of the bar.