Murder of a Creped Suzette (23 page)

The address Father Burns had provided was located in the middle of the second block, a nondescript ranch with beige vinyl siding. Near the sidewalk, a FOR RENT sign with a plastic tube attached was staked into the meager brown lawn. Skye flipped open the cap and took out one of the flyers. When she saw that it contained a floor plan, she stuck the leaflet into her tote bag, thinking it might come in handy.

After trying the neighbors on either side of 1308, Skye was discouraged. The woman on the right had lived there for only a couple of years and the one on the left had moved in that summer. Both women said that most of the houses on Singer Lane were rentals.

Skye looked down at Toby. “Shall we try a few more?”

The little dog yipped, which she took as an affirmative. Crossing the road, she knocked on the door directly across from the Neal family’s former residence. This house was slightly bigger than the others on the street, and much better maintained. The trim was freshly painted, the leaves raked, and the cement walk crack free.

A man wearing sweatpants and a Bears jersey opened the door a cautious inch, and she said quickly, “Hi. My name is Skye Denison.” She reached in her pocket and handed him her card. “I’m the Scumble River Police Department psychological consultant.”

“I’m Hank Vanda.” He let the door swing open a little wider. “Are you here about those druggies on the end of the block?”

“No. Sorry, but I will tell the chief about your concern,” Skye assured the man. “I’m trying to find someone who lived in this area back in 1978.”

“Let’s see.” He tugged on his chin and his lips moved silently. At last, he said, “We moved in when I was two, so that would be 1977.”

“Oh.” Skye’s heart sank. Finally someone who had lived on Singer Lane during the right time period, but he’d have been too young to remember anything that happened back then. “Well, thanks anyway.”

“Don’t you want to talk to my mom?” Hank cocked a thumb behind him.

“Oh, yes.” Skye brightened. “That would be wonderful.”

“Well, then you better talk fast. Her programs start at six thirty and she doesn’t let anything interfere with her television time.”

“Thank you.”

As she followed Hank through the living room, Skye noticed a pair of binoculars resting on the sill of a picture window facing the street. A worn recliner, its back to the rest of the room, was stationed nearby. She doubted the field glasses were used for bird watching. If Mrs. Vanda was the snoop, Skye might be in luck!

The kitchen walls were painted a bright red, with images of apples decorating the curtains, place mats, and canister set. Even the linoleum was imprinted with the fruit. Hank’s mother stood at the sink washing dishes.

After her son introduced Skye, explaining who Skye was and what she wanted, the woman wiped her hands dry on a terry cloth towel hanging from a drawer handle and said, “I’m Jenny Vanda.”

“Nice to meet you. What a cheerful kitchen.”

“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.”

“Friends in Low Places”

J
enny 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.

While the animals were occupied with their dinners, Skye changed out of her work clothes. She had already put on a pair of jeans and was pulling an emerald green sweatshirt over her head when she heard the muffled sound of the doorbell ringing.

It was going on seven thirty, around the time Wally had said to expect him. Had he forgotten his key? That wasn’t like him at all.

Curious as to who could be dropping in on a Friday night, she ran down the stairs, pushed aside the curtain covering the front window, and caught her breath. What was Darleen Boyd doing on her front porch?

There was no love lost between Skye and Wally’s ex-wife, so when she opened the door, she kept the chain on. “Darleen, what a surprise.”

“I’ll bet.” Darleen was nearly six feet tall and cadav-erously thin. “I need to talk to you, woman to woman. Can I come in?”

Skye hesitated. It was probably best to exercise a certain amount of caution. “I’m sort of busy right now. Maybe we could meet for coffee tomorrow morning at the Feed Bag, or the new bookstore in town has a café that serves fabulous baked goods and cappuccinos.”

“Please.” Darleen held out a hand, and Skye could see that her nails were bitten so short they looked raw. “It needs to be tonight.”

Skye couldn’t think of an excuse to turn Darleen away. Wally’s ex-wife might dislike her, but she’d never been violent. “If it’s important—”

“I promise I’ll make this short.” Darleen was shivering uncontrollably, and her baby-doll minidress revealed skeletally thin arms and legs.

“Well . . .” Why wasn’t Darleen wearing a coat? Skye bit her lip. It went against her nature to turn down someone in need, especially such a waiflike creature. Darleen looked as if a stiff wind would blow her away, and October was known for its blustery weather.

“Please, just five minutes.” Darleen’s voice was desperate, but her expression was hard to read. “Really. I’ll be in and out before you know it.”

“Okay.” Skye nodded, unhooked the chain, and swung open the door.

Instantly, a man who had been standing just out of Skye’s line of sight propelled Darleen over the threshold, crowding in right behind her. He was huge, with bulging biceps and long blond hair tied back in a ponytail. An enormous cross hung from a thick gold chain around his neck.

Darleen stepped aside and Mr. Muscles grabbed Skye so that his forearm rested against her throat. She screamed and tried to wiggle free, kicking back at his shins and clawing at his arm, but the Incredible Hulk seemed impervious to her efforts to free herself.

He swung Skye around so that she was facing the staircase, and ordered over his shoulder, “Dar, don’t just stand there like an idiot. Check out the place and make sure we don’t have company.”

“Uh, sure, Gary. Sorry,” Darleen stuttered, then disappeared up the steps.

Realizing she would not accomplish anything by struggling, Skye decided it was time to use her skills as a psychologist. “If you tell me what you want, I’ll be happy to get it for you—then you can leave. We don’t need all this drama.”

Gary snorted but otherwise remained silent, still holding Skye prisoner. While they waited, she tried to think of an escape plan. Just before the creep had grabbed her, Skye had noticed that neither Darleen nor her boyfriend had closed the front door. If she could get loose, she could make a run for it. But where would she go?

While Darleen was searching the second floor, Skye tried to think of a place to hide if she managed to free herself from Gary’s chokehold. Too bad it wasn’t as warm as the previous week; she could have headed for the river and swum away from her captors.

Darleen’s whiny voice broke into Skye’s thoughts. She scuttled down the staircase, complaining, “You should see the fancy bathroom this bitch has. No wonder Wally refuses to give me the money I deserve. He’s spending it all on her.”

“Hey.” Skye couldn’t let that pass. “I paid for that myself by working for my cousin. And believe me, that job was no piece of wedding cake.”

“Yeah. Right.” Gary made a scornful noise. “Now, ladies, if that’s settled, was anyone up there? Or did you spend all your time in the bathroom, Dar?”

“Oops! Sorry, Gary.” Darleen covered her mouth. “It’s all clear.”

“Then check the rest of the house.” Gary’s voice took on an impatient edge, and as Darleen ran toward the kitchen, he sneered, “What a dimwit.”

“She has a college degree, so she can’t be too dumb,” Skye retorted. She hated it when men talked badly about their girlfriends.

“That was before the coke and the weed and the pills.” Gary snickered. “That’s why I don’t take none of that shit. Did you see that commercial on TV with the egg? The one that says, ‘This is your brain on drugs’?”

“Yes.” Skye heard Toby barking. When he abruptly quieted, she flinched. What if Darleen had hurt the little dog? She knew Bingo would be okay. The cat would have fled at the first sign of an intruder. “Glad to see the public service announcement made an impression.”

“I like to be in control,” Gary confided. “If you’re high, you’re not in control.”

“Very true.” Since he was chatting, Skye tried once more to talk her way out of the situation. “I noticed your cross. Do you really think God would approve of what you’re doing to me?”

“Probably not.” Gary gave a mocking laugh. “See, I figure it like this—God may be my copilot, but the devil makes a better bombardier.”

Cripes!
What was it about her that attracted all the psychos? So much for her counseling skills. Maybe if she could find out what the goon wanted, she could hand it over and get him out of there. “If you’re looking for cash or valuables, you picked the wrong person to rob.”

“You’re the valuable, sweet cheeks.” Gary chuckled at his own wit. “Your man may not be willing to pay to get that letter you two want, but from what Dar says, and from what I’ve seen this week while I was watching you guys, he’ll hand over some serious cash to get you back in one piece. That dude is so damn gaga over you he’d probably even take a bullet to save you.”