Murder of a Creped Suzette (8 page)

Skye wondered how many farmers and homeowners would sell out to the music promoter. She was thankful that her family’s land was on the other side of Scumble River, and would be of little interest to Mr. Taylor.

Just before she reached the I-55 exit, an old sign advertising the defunct dairy loomed up on her right. As Skye pulled onto the rutted dirt road, she noted a pair of decrepit wooden gates lying on the ground, an uncomfortable reminder that agriculture’s heyday was long gone. After Skye bumped down the lane for a quarter of a mile, the buildings came into view.

The once white clapboard farmhouse was situated on the left side of the property, separated from the other structures by a neglected yard and a detached garage with a large gravel rectangle in front of the doors. A row of overgrown evergreen bushes had completely blocked the front porch. The grass was nearly thigh high, and a lawn ornament, a rusted windmill, spun madly in the wind that had kicked up.

Through the sheeting raindrops, Skye could barely make out the beginning of the makeover from farm to theater. All the work seemed to be on the exterior of the milking barn and the area around it, which was being turned into a parking lot. The other buildings—house, garage, and silos—appeared untouched.

A gleaming white Winnebago had been installed next to the driveway, which was empty of cars.
Sheesh!
It looked as if everyone had left for the day, just as she had feared.

Skye parked the Bel Air as close to the trailer as possible and reached into the backseat for her umbrella. She waited for the downpour to let up, then ran to the Winnebago’s door. Sitting on the metal step was a small white dog wearing a hot pink collar studded with rhinestones. It whined when she approached.

The canine was so wet and bedraggled, Skye couldn’t tell if it was a purebred or not, but she could see that it was male. She held out her hand, and the dog sniffed, then leaned against her knee. The heart-shaped silver tag on his collar was inscribed with the name Toby.

Fighting the wind, which was endeavoring to snatch the umbrella from Skye’s grasp, she tried to flip the tag over to see if there was owner information on the back, but the little dog danced out of her reach. Next she attempted to pick him up, thinking he probably belonged to one of the Country Roads staff, but he dodged her hands and darted between her legs.

Skye called after him, “Here, Toby. Come on, boy. I’ll take you somewhere dry.”

Toby stopped, blinked his dark brown eyes, and yipped, then loped toward the barn.

Skye hesitated. Should she go after the dog? No. It would probably be better to find Toby’s owner, as he or she would have an easier time persuading the canine to come in out of the rain.

Turning back, Skye tried the door. It was locked.
Hmm.
Maybe if Suzette was out here alone, she felt unsafe. Skye knocked. Nothing. She knocked again, then put her ear to the door to listen, but she couldn’t hear a thing.

Raising her voice, she yelled, “Suzette, it’s Skye.”

There was no answer. She shouted even louder with the same results. Irritation prompted her to grab the knob and rattle the door. Still no answer.

Skye looked around. There was no sign of a note.
Son of a gun!
She’d been stood up. It was just plain rude to arrange to meet someone from whom you were asking a favor, then not honor the appointment. Maybe she wouldn’t help Suzette investigate her mother’s death after all.

Frustrated, Skye headed back to her car. She was about to slide into the driver’s seat when the little white dog reappeared in front of the Bel Air’s hood. Skye slowly stood back up and moved toward him, but he scurried toward the barn. He stopped halfway and barked, then ran on, stopping every few steps to stare at her.

Skye had seen enough reruns of
Lassie
on Nick at Nite to know that Toby wanted her to follow him. But why? She doubted Timmy was trapped in a well, and she sure hoped Toby didn’t want to show off a snake or a possum he had killed. Skye’d had her fill of Bingo’s mouse carcass trophies.

She trailed Toby, calling out,“
Yoo hoo
, anyone around?”

The dog kept ahead of her, never letting her get within grabbing range. He paused in front of the barn, but as Skye caught up, he shot off. Did Toby want her to go inside? It sure would be easier if dogs could talk.

The barn door was closed, but not locked. When Skye entered, she saw they hadn’t started work on the interior yet. She walked through the cavernous space, but saw nothing that would make Toby behave as he had.

The flight of stairs to the hayloft was steep, and Skye was not thrilled at the prospect of climbing them. She kicked off her heels and yelled, “Is anyone up there?”

No answer. She ascended the wooden steps, wincing as they creaked. If she fell and broke her neck because of a dog, her mother would kill her. May hated all animals, especially pets.

Reaching the top, Skye couldn’t see anything at first because the loft was so dark. But as her eyes adjusted it was clear that there was nothing there but a century’s worth of dust and a few wisps of hay.

Skye’s sense of unease grew. Whatever Toby wanted to show her wasn’t here. When she exited the barn, the dog was pacing outside the door. Spotting her, he woofed and trotted away.

This time he kept Skye in sight, never getting more than a few feet in front of her. He led her around the back of the building to where the parking lot was being installed. Heavy earth-moving equipment was parked haphazardly across the vast dirt and gravel square.

Once Skye caught up with Toby, he ran to a steamroller and sat beside it, whimpering. Peeking out from under the massive roller was a pair of pink cowboy boots.

A shiver ran down Skye’s spine. She hesitated a long moment, praying she wasn’t seeing what she thought she was seeing, then ran over to the machine. In her head she knew that whoever was wearing those boots was dead, but she crouched down anyway and tried to reach an ankle to check for a pulse.

The flesh felt cold and hard, and when Skye withdrew her hand, it was covered with blood.

“I Fall to Pieces”

S
kye fought to stay calm, chanting silently,
I’ve discovered bodies before. There’s no need to panic.
She sank to the ground while a voice inside her head whispered,
But this is so much worse than anything you’ve seen before.
Her stomach churned and she tasted bile.

Stop it,
Skye commanded herself.
You are a psychologist and a consultant for the police. You’ve been trained to remain detached, to distance yourself. You can do this.
She swallowed hard.

You need to walk over to your car and get the cell phone from your purse.
She closed her eyes and tried to disconnect her emotions.

Before she could force herself to her feet and do what she knew she had to do, Toby crawled over and pressed his little body to her side. She scratched behind his ears as she tried to process the situation, but her psyche refused to cooperate.

Skye lost track of time as she knelt in the mud, mindlessly petting the little dog until the rain and the wind finally penetrated the fog that had fallen over her. She got to her feet, clutching Toby to her chest. He laid his head on her shoulder and sighed.

Still in a near trance, Skye walked to the Bel Air, found her phone, and dialed Wally’s private line. It rang four times, then went to voice mail. She got the same response from his cell.

Skye wrinkled her brow, then exhaled noisily and dialed 911. Her mother was the dispatcher on duty and she steeled herself for May’s reaction.

“Scumble River police, fire, and emergency,” May answered on the first ring. “How can I help you?”

“Send an ambulance and the officer on duty to Hutton’s dairy farm.” Skye didn’t bother giving an address. She was sure that all the cops and EMTs knew where the farm was located. “Someone’s very badly hurt in the parking lot behind the barn.” She was unwilling to say for sure that the person under the steamroller was dead. The emergency squad personnel should make that call.

“Skye, is that you?” May demanded. “What are you doing out there? Who’s hurt?”

Pushing the END button, Skye climbed into her car, still cuddling the little dog. The fact that she had hung up on her mother showed just how truly upset she was. Having lost her umbrella at some point, she was soaked to the skin, and even though the temperature was in the mideighties, she felt chilled to the bone. Shivering, she started the Chevy and turned on the heat full blast.

As she waited for help to arrive, she put Toby on the passenger seat, where he promptly shook his entire body, spraying both Skye and the Bel Air’s interior with a fine mist. As Skye dried off the dog with a wad of napkins from the glove compartment, all she could think about was the last time she had seen pink cowboy boots—on Suzette Neal’s dainty little feet.

While Skye tried to convince herself that Suzette didn’t own the only pair of brightly colored boots, an ambulance with its sirens blaring and lights flashing pulled into the driveway. A police cruiser skidded to a stop directly behind the ambulance and Sergeant Roy Quirk jumped out.

Quirk was in his early thirties and was Wally’s second in command. The sergeant’s solidly muscled body and shaved bullet-shaped head made him look like a torpedo.

He and Skye had had a run-in last fall, but they were now on good terms. Even so, she was reluctant to leave the warmth of her Bel Air to join the sergeant on the gravel drive. Talking about what she had seen would make it real.

He tugged his plastic-covered police hat down nearly to his eyebrows, trying to shield his eyes from the driving rain, and pulled open her car door. “What’s going on?” Quirk hunched over so he could look into Skye’s face. “May said you sounded really bad on the phone and wouldn’t give any details.”

“I didn’t want to have to go over it twice.” Skye’s voice was taut, her fingers twisted in a knot. “Where’s the chief?”

“He’s testifying on that gas station robbery case,” Quirk answered with a sigh. “He should be back anytime now. Trials usually end by four at the latest.”

“Sorry.” Skye tried to remember if Wally had told her he would be out of town today. “I didn’t mean to sound like I thought you couldn’t handle this.”

“I understand.” He shook his head. “I’m used to that reaction. Everyone wants Superman, and they’re disappointed when Clark Kent shows up.” He straightened his shoulders. “So, fill me in.”

“Okay.” Skye gestured with her chin to where the EMTs had disappeared around the back of the barn. “Someone . . . Someone . . .” Feeling nauseous again, she swallowed before continuing. “Under the . . . the . . .” Saying it out loud was harder than she had imagined. “Someone’s been run over by the steamroller.”

All expression left Quirk’s face. “Show me.”

Skye wanted to refuse to return to that awful scene, but she got out of the car.

While they walked, Quirk asked, “Did you recognize the victim?”

Skye had to hurry to keep up with Quirk’s fast pace. “I can’t be sure.”

Quirk shot her a puzzled look but kept moving. “Why is that?”

Growing breathless, Skye gasped, “All I could see were the boots.”

“And you called for an ambulance?” Quirk’s tone was dubious, but not harsh. “Do you really think she might be alive?”

“Probably not.” Skye didn’t meet his gaze. “But I sure wouldn’t want to be mistaken.”

At the edge of the parking lot, Quirk ordered, “Stay here.”

Skye nodded; then, feeling dizzy, she sank into a nearby pile of concrete blocks. Her view was a bit obstructed, for which she was immensely thankful. She did not want to see what was under that roller.

However, it was clear from the snatches of conversation she heard and the body language of the EMTs that the woman was dead.

There was a short discussion between Quirk and the paramedics regarding how to move the hulking machine.

When no one had any suggestions, one of the EMTs climbed up into the cab, but almost immediately got back down. “The key’s there, but I have no idea how to run the thing.”

“Okay.” Quirk grabbed the radio clipped to his shoulder and thumbed the button. “Dispatch, please locate the foreman of the construction crew working at the Hutton dairy farm and have him report to the scene.”

Quirk rejoined Skye, but instead of speaking to her, he took a cell phone from his pocket, dialed, and waited for his call to be answered before saying, “Reid, we have a body for you.”

Skye cringed. Simon Reid, her ex-boyfriend, was the county coroner, not to mention the owner of both the local funeral home and the bowling alley. Even though she’d been engaged to Wally since the end of June, Simon had been trying to win her back with extravagant measures that included offers of exotic trips, surprise champagne lunches, and serenading her dressed as a knight in shining armor. Running into him in any situation was awkward.

When Skye focused back on the present, Quirk was calling the county crime scene techs. Once he had filled them in, he radioed the Scumble River PD to see if the chief had checked in yet. Skye was relieved when she heard her mother say that Wally was on his way.

A quick glance at her watch told Skye that it was nearly five. It would take at least three-quarters of an hour, maybe more, for the techs to arrive from Laurel. The county seat, where they were based, was a good forty-five miles away from Scumble River, and the narrow secondary roads were full of twists and turns.

Taking a deep breath, Skye rose from her seat and said to Quirk, “Unless you need me for something, I’ll wait for the chief in my car.”

“Good idea,” Quirk agreed. “I’ve called in all our off-duty and part-time officers, and they’ll be keeping the perimeter intact.”

“Okay.” Skye started to walk away. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?”