Murder of a Creped Suzette (4 page)

“Family Tradition”

W
hen Skye finally made it through the crowd and reached the grandstand, she saw the mayor hurrying away with Rex Taylor. She started to follow the two men, but stopped after only a few steps. Maybe it would be better to talk to her uncle another time—alone. The mayor tended to bluster a tiny bit less, and tell the truth a tiny bit more, when he wasn’t playing to the balcony. For Dante, all the world was a stage, and he didn’t care where the audience sat.

As Skye hesitated, a soft voice near her hip asked, “Did you need to speak to your uncle, dear?”

“Not really.” Skye leaned down and kissed her aunt’s paper-soft cheek. Olive smelled of old-fashioned face powder and attar of roses.

“He’ll be right back.” Olive sat rigidly, as if she had a metal rod for a spine. Her short ash blond hair was sprayed into a helmet so hard that NASA could use it for the next moonwalk. Her pale yellow shoes precisely matched the stripes in her dress and the purse leaning against her leg. Pearls adorned her ears, throat, and wrist.

“That’s okay, Aunt Olive.” Skye patted her aunt’s arm. “It wasn’t anything important. I was just a little curious about Mr. Taylor’s plans.”

Skye tried to back away, but her aunt gripped her hand. “Don’t go.” Olive had moved to Scumble River from Chicago as an eighteen-year-old bride, and nearly forty-five years later she still seemed ill at ease if she was left alone among the natives for too long. “Really, Dante won’t be a minute.” She peered anxiously over her shoulder.

“Do you need something, Aunt Olive?” Skye felt sorry for the fragile woman.

“No.” Olive pulled Skye down into Dante’s abandoned throne next to her own seat. “We never seem to get a chance to chat. I haven’t seen you since the Fourth of July picnic, and we hardly got to say more than a few words to each other there.”

“Family parties are a little overwhelming.” Skye yanked the footrest’s handle upward but returned it to its original locked position when she nearly tipped herself out of the chair. “How have you and Uncle Dante been?”

“Good.” Olive nodded at her own word as if trying to convince herself. “Everything’s fine with us. How are your brother and his new wife?”

Vince had shocked everyone by eloping to Las Vegas with Skye’s Alpha Sigma Alpha sorority sister Loretta Steiner. Skye knew that was her aunt’s real reason for their tête-à-tête. Even after a month, their marriage was a hot topic among the town’s gossips.

“Excellent.” Skye was happy to talk about her brother’s nuptials, especially if it kept the conversation away from her own stalled wedding plans. She and Wally were in limbo until his annulment came through.

Skye peeked at her watch and saw it was nearly nine thirty. She was supposed to meet Wally in a few minutes, but with the free booze still flowing, she doubted he’d be able to leave anytime soon. The number of officers required to keep the peace was directly proportional to the amount of beer consumed.

“Your mother said they’re planning to live in town and Loretta will commute to the city.” Olive’s expression was doubtful. “Can that be right? I mean, it’s a good hour and a half one way.”

“Yes, Mom’s right.” Skye gazed intently into her aunt’s eyes, not wanting Olive to stir up the family. “They’ve already started looking at houses.”

“That’s what May said, but I wondered if it was just a pipe dream on her part.”

“Not at all. Since Loretta is a criminal defense attorney, she doesn’t need to be in her office every day. She can telecommute a lot of the time.”

“How modern.” Olive sounded slightly wistful as she added, “Though I think Vince might have enjoyed living in the city.”

“I guess.” Skye wrinkled her nose. “Then again, I think Vince enjoys himself wherever he is.”

“Well, it will certainly be interesting when we
finally
get to meet her for ourselves.”

Skye had cautioned her brother that eloping would open up a can of worms. It didn’t take much bait for their relatives to start gossiping. “Mom is planning a party for them around Christmas.”

“That’ll be nice. Although the holidays are such a busy time of year.” Olive leaned down and picked up her handbag. “And since we’re all eager to have a chance to get to know Loretta and her family, sooner would be better.” She unsnapped the gold clasp and rummaged inside. “We were certainly astonished when we heard that Vince was married.”

“I can understand that.” Skye chuckled. “No one thought he would ever settle down, since he was having such fun playing the field.”

“True.” Olive pulled a yellow lace-edged handkerchief from the depths of her pocketbook and dabbed her brow. “But we were more surprised by his choice of brides than by his tying the knot.”

“Oh?” Skye’s stomach tightened.

“Yes.” Olive replaced her hanky and took out a gold tube. “Loretta certainly wasn’t what we were expecting for Vince’s wife.”

“Why is that?” Skye’s voice had an edge to it. Loretta was African-American and Skye had been afraid some of the family might object to an interracial marriage. “She’s beautiful and intelligent.”

“I’m sure she is, dear.” Olive applied a fresh coat of dusty rose lipstick. “But perhaps a tad too sophisticated for Vince?”

“Huh?” Skye was relieved her aunt wasn’t referring to the color of Loretta’s skin, but had Olive just called Vince a hick?

“What she means,” an impatient male voice said, breaking into their conversation, “is that Vince likes them young, pretty, dumb, and agreeable, not mature, elegant, smart, and with a mind of their own.”

Dante had materialized in front of them like a malevolent poltergeist. He was short and stout, wearing a disgruntled expression and a black denim leisure suit that had gone out of style forty years ago.

Skye forced a pleasant smile and said, “Vince has changed—grown up.”

“Right.” Dante snorted. “They’ll be in divorce court before the new year.”

“You’re wrong, Uncle Dante.” Skye refused to let his statement stand. Others could kowtow to the mayor, but she wasn’t about to—not on this issue. “Why would you even say that? Vince and Loretta are in love and that’s all that matters.”

“Love is a myth women made up to keep men in line.” Dante folded his arms. “It’s certainly not a good reason to get married.”

“Then why did you get married?” Skye blurted out, then wished she hadn’t when she saw her aunt’s stricken expression.

“To produce an heir.” Dante waddled closer to the women, looking a lot like a pissed-off penguin. “Now, if you two are through gossiping and Skye will get her butt out of my seat, I’d like to get out of here before the parking lot becomes a madhouse.”

Skye jumped up and gestured to Dante’s canvas throne. “Be my guest.” She tilted her head. “You must have had very important business with Mr. Taylor to stick around this long.”

Dante didn’t respond to Skye’s probe. Instead he jerked his chin at his wife and said, “Olive, are you going to sit there all night?”

“No, Dante.” Olive leaped to her feet, nearly saluting. “Sorry.”

Dante ignored her, folded both the chairs, shoved them into their carrying bags, heaved the straps over his shoulders, and picked up the cooler, then marched off without a backward glance.

“Bye, dear.” Olive waved to Skye, then hastily tottered after her husband, but not before Skye noticed the tears on her cheeks.

“Shit! ” Skye stomped her foot. She had failed to learn anything about Rex Taylor’s scheme, and she’d hurt her aunt. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“Do you kiss your fiancé with that mouth?” Wally’s amused baritone enveloped Skye.

She turned to find him directly behind her. “Only if he’s lucky.”

Chief Walter Boyd was an extremely attractive man who superbly filled out his crisply starched police uniform. He had eyes the color of Godiva chocolate, curly black hair with just a touch of silver at the temples, and a year-round tan. But it wasn’t his handsome face or sexy body that made Skye love him; it was his sense of humor and his compassionate nature.

“My horoscope said something great would occur today.” Wally’s dazzling white smile was rueful. “And thus far nothing even close to good has happened to me, so you must be it.”

Skye flung herself into his embrace, reveling in feeling his muscular arms around her and his solid chest beneath her cheek. “You can tell me all about it on the way home.” She gave him a lingering kiss, then took his hand and tried to lead him toward the parking lot.

Wally didn’t budge. “That’s why I was looking for you. It’ll be quite a while until I can leave.”

“Darn.” Skye’s smile was teasing. “And here I was planning to make you forget all about your troubles. Is there a problem?”

“Too many to list.” Wally winced as the sound of shouting interrupted them. “Let’s just say I sure hope they run out of beer soon.”

“Gee, and I thought the open bar would bring out the best in everyone,” Skye mocked.

A cherry bomb exploded somewhere behind them. “Sorry about tonight,” Wally said over his shoulder as he took off running. “I’ll take you somewhere nice for brunch after church tomorrow.”

“No problem.” Skye waved. “Go do your duty and keep Scumble River safe.”

On the way to her car, Skye paused to watch a brawny man in his early thirties tip over one of the Port-a-Potties. Once it was on its side, the man yanked open the door and pulled out the occupant. He plucked a plastic six-pack holder off the guy’s head and plopped it on his own skull. A tussle ensued between the two men, with the victor bloodying the nose of his foe and reclaiming his crown.

Clutching a bottle of Budweiser, the winner climbed on top of the downed outhouse and screamed, “I’m the king of the world.”

Skye shook her head. Testosterone really should be declared a controlled substance.

Not far from the monarch’s throne, a dozen or so spectators circled two women who were stripping off their clothes to the song “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” which was blaring from a boom box nearby. Once the exhibitionists were down to their bras and panties, the bystanders cheering them on tossed each lady a can of Aqua Net—apparently the only weapons available. Once they had drenched each other with the hairspray, the women squirted the onlookers until the canisters were empty.

Immediately two gentlemen from the audience handed each woman a pillow. They turned back-to-back, paced off ten steps, turned, and ran at each other. A few smacks and the pillows began to tear. Soon feathers filled the air and Skye quickly moved away before she started sneezing.

She was walking near the riverbank when she spotted several guys, some clad in boxer shorts and others in tighty whities, attempting to jump into the river but being kept at bay by most of the Scumble River police force. It looked like an adult version of the game Red Rover, Red Rover. As one of the wannabe swimmers ran at the line of cops and was driven back into the group, another of the aspiring skinny-dippers would try to break through the wall of officers and leap into the water.

The would-be bathers were either drunk past the point of all survival instincts or not from Scumble River, because the locals all knew that the dam caused dangerous currents, and attempting to swim off the park’s shore was a good way to commit suicide.

Sending up a heartfelt prayer that none of the revelers would manage to slip past the cops, Skye continued toward her car. She knew that tomorrow they would all be as hungover as a sheet on the clothesline, but better a raging headache than a trip to the morgue.

Scumble River Park was a small finger of land that extended into the river for a half mile or so. It was usually accessible by car from Maryland Street, but that entrance had been blocked for the concert and people had been directed to leave their vehicles next door at the Up A Lazy River Motor Court.

The last stretch of her hike to the motor court’s parking lot was deserted, and Skye thankfully crossed the footbridge and climbed into her trusty aqua and white’57 Bel Air convertible.

Even though she lived north of the city limits along the west branch of the Scumble River, the drive home took less than ten minutes. Then again, most trips around Scumble River and its environs took less than ten minutes. With a population only a shade over three thousand, the town didn’t cover many miles.

A couple of years ago Skye had inherited the Griggs house, as the old two-story white edifice would always be called, and she had been renovating it ever since. Tonight, as she steered her car through the twin redbrick columns at the end of the driveway, she admired the newly restored wrought-iron gates. When she had first moved into the house, the gates had lain rusting in the weeds. The ornate double
G
s entwined in the center were a gloomy reminder that the previous owner, Alma Griggs, had begun her married life there as an affluent wife and died a poverty-stricken widow. By refurbishing the property, Skye felt she was giving Mrs. Griggs the memorial she deserved.

At the end of the long driveway, Skye first turned the Bel Air to the right, then spun the wheel around and pulled into the left side of the detached two-car garage. She had finally sold the ancient Lincoln Continental that had occupied the other half for over a year. Skye had found the car, like a lot of Mrs. Griggs’s possessions, hard to relinquish. She wasn’t sure why she felt such an attachment to the old woman’s belongings, but she did.

Once Skye was out on the sidewalk, the halogen pole lamp she’d had installed near the driveway provided a circle of illumination that extended all the way to her front door. It made the short trip from her car to her house feel safer, and having helped the police solve several murders, Skye was usually more alert to her surroundings than the average Scumble Riverite.

Tonight, however, her mind was on Rex Taylor’s announcement and Skye was lost in thought as she mounted the porch steps. On autopilot, she approached the front door and inserted the key in the lock. But before she could turn it, a loud squeak followed by footsteps penetrated her reverie. She whirled around, staring into the darkness until a slight figure stepped into the pool of light.