Murder of a Creped Suzette

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned,” Skye explained, “under everyone’s hard shell is someone who wants to be loved. Obviously, Kallista and Rex didn’t have that kind of marriage; maybe he thought he could have it with Suzette. And when she rejected not only his sexual advances, but also his love, he couldn’t stand it.”

When Wally arrested Rex an hour later, he protested long and loud, but when the paper bag full of his bloody clothes was produced, he snapped his mouth shut so hard Skye thought she heard a tooth crack.

After a moment, Rex said, “It was an accident.”

Skye shot Wally a look. Where had they heard that before?

“I was just trying to kiss her. She jerked away, tripped, and struck the back of her head on the corner of the desk. It must have hit just right, because by the time I got back with the first aid kit she was already dead.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?” Wally asked.

“A scandal like that would ruin me and the music theater.” Rex looked at Wally as if he were crazy. “Country music fans want wholesome entertainment.”

“So steamrolling her body was better?” Skye blurted out.

“I gambled they’d get over that faster than me killing my assistant while trying to fu—make love to her,” Rex explained. “And I figured the steamroller was the only way I could make sure that no trace of me on her body would be discovered.”

“Why go to all the trouble with the semen?” Wally asked.

“I figured it was a twofer.” Rex shrugged. “I’d seen the used rubbers in the garbage on other occasions, and I thought, what the heck, if there’s one there today, I can use the stuff inside to implicate my wife’s lover and point any interest away from me.” He glowered. “I didn’t realize my dumb bunny of a wife was getting it on with my star. I thought she was shacking up with some nobody from the band.”

“That was your fatal mistake.” Skye stared Rex in the eye. “Never underestimate a woman.”

EPILOGUE

“I Hope You Dance”

“Any idea why we’ve been summoned?” Wally asked as Skye turned her Bel Air into the crowded parking lot of an empty building near the Better Than New used-car lot and the Tales and Treats Bookstore.

“Nope.” Skye shut off the motor. “Aunt Olive asked us to come and said she’d explain when we got here.” She gazed up and down the dark street, thinking how the town would have changed if Rex Taylor had had his way.

It was a month since Rex had been arrested for the murder of Suzette Neal, and Scumble Riverites were still reeling from the news. Some of the citizens were happy that their community would remain as it was, but others mourned the loss of the music theater project and the revenue it would have generated.

With Rex in jail awaiting trial, Kallista and the rest of the Country Roads staff had left the area without a backward glance. Other than the big FOR SALE sign on the Hutton dairy property, there were no indications that Rex or his crew had ever planned to turn Scumble River into the Branson of Illinois.

Kallista had immediately begun divorce proceedings, and was back in Nashville building a mansion modeled after Tara. Rumor had it that her and Flint’s duet album was scheduled for release next summer.

Wally broke into Skye’s thoughts. “It seems out of character for Olive to take this kind of initiative.” His expression was quizzical. “In my experience, directives come from Dante, not his wife.”

“Mine, too.” Skye got out of the car. “Which is exactly why I said we’d be here. Something’s up.”

“Then let’s go see what it is.” Wally tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

The door to the building was open, and Skye and Wally walked inside. The foyer was dark, but lights and conversation to their left beckoned them.

“This is a little creepy,” Skye said, tugging on Wally’s sleeve. “Do you think Aunt Olive might still be afraid we’ll tell Dante about her affair? Is she setting a trap to get rid of us?”

“Not with a room full of witnesses.”

“Maybe the voices are recorded and the vehicles in the lot are from Hugo’s used-car dealership.”

“I’ll protect you.” Wally steered Skye toward the brightness. “We made it out of Doozierville alive—I’m sure we can handle your sixty-three-year-old aunt.”

“We barely made it out alive,” Skye reminded him. “And you weren’t the one who ended up painted as orange as an Oompa-Loompa.” She reluctantly allowed herself to be led forward.

When they turned the corner, the area they entered was one big space with polished wood floors and mirrored walls. A long table holding plates of snacks and an assortment of drinks was set off to one side. Soft music came from a CD player, and people in groups of three or four stood around talking softly.