Murder of a Creped Suzette (25 page)

“I’m trying to get her and your mom to join, but both of them say they’re too busy.” Hilda
tsk
ed. “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.

“Actually, it is.” Skye met the eyes of each club member sitting around the table, making sure they understood her message. “Simon and I are here on official police business, and I’d really appreciate it if you kept that info under your wonderful chapeaus.”

“Of course, dear.” Hilda pantomimed zipping her lips and the others followed suit. “We won’t tell a soul.”

“Thank you.” Skye didn’t believe any of them for a minute, but she hoped she had at least postponed the rumorfest until she could present Wally with a solid lead on Suzette’s murder. “Have fun, ladies.”

When Skye joined Simon, he slanted an unreadable look at her, and asked, “Everything okay?”

“Peachy.”

He ignored Skye’s sarcasm and asked, “So, do you see anyone who reminds you of Suzette?”

Skye scanned the bar’s occupants, then shook her head. “Nope.”

“Take a look at this.” He took the photo of Suzette from his pocket and placed it on the bar. “Does this help?” He had kept the picture as Skye had left it, with the paper frame blocking all but the facial features.

Skye was studying the image when Jess Larson, the owner of the Brown Bag, walked over and said, “Can I get you two something to drink?”

“Diet Coke, slice of lime,” Skye ordered, barely looking up.

There was a moment of dead silence; then Jess tapped the altered photo and asked in a puzzled tone, “Why do you have my picture? And how did you get that makeup on my face?”

Skye lifted her head and stared at him. Now she understood. The resemblance between Jess and the dead singer was uncanny. After assuring the bar owner that he would get an explanation, Skye dragged Simon outside. She immediately called Wally and sketched out the situation.

Wally’s cruiser pulled into the parking lot less than two minutes later. He dismissed Simon, who had agreed to keep Toby until Skye was free, told Skye to wait in the squad car, and went inside.

 

A quarter of an hour later, Wally and Skye sat across from Jess Larson in the PD’s interrogation-coffee room.

“Thanks for coming down here.” Wally smiled easily at Jess. “As I said back at the Brown Bag, we have a few questions that we hope you can help us answer.”

“I’m always glad to cooperate with the police, and since Abe was available to take over behind the bar for me, it’s no problem.” Jess leaned back in his chair. “But I can’t imagine what I can help you with.”

Skye glanced at Wally, and when he gave her a slight nod, she said, “Jess, I believe when I first met you, you told me you were from Los Angeles. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“But you said your father was in the military and you moved around a lot.”

“That’s right.” Jess gave Skye a crooked grin. “Why are you and the chief suddenly so interested in my background?”

“I promise we’ll explain,” Skye reassured him. “Just a couple more questions. I also recall that you said you bought the Brown Bag from its previous owner, Fayanne Emerick, and that Fayanne was your cousin.”

“Yep. Cousin Fayanne’s letters made Scumble River seem like a cross between
Mayberry R.F.D.
and
Leave It to Beaver.
It sounded like the kind of place I had been trying to find for a long time. And then when I came to check out the business, I almost felt like I had lived here in some other life.”

Wally and Skye exchanged looks, and he said, “Well, see, that’s the thing. We think it’s possible you
did
live here before, back when you were three years old, but that doesn’t jibe with your story of growing up.”

“Oh?” Jess wrinkled his brow. “Would it help to know that I was adopted shortly before I turned four?”

“That would certainly make things a little clearer,” Skye said, half to herself. “And your adoptive parents were named Larson?”

“Yes.” Jess’s voice was low and sad. “I never knew my real last name.”

“Do you remember a sister?” Suzette had told Skye that she had been raised by an elderly aunt in California. Had the twins been separated?

“I used to pretend I had a sister called Suzie.” Jess scratched his head. “But the couple who adopted me didn’t have any other children.”

“Were you told why you were put up for adoption?” Skye asked gently.

“My parents were killed in an accident. My biological father had been in the same army unit as my adoptive father.” Jess leaned forward, his eyes fierce. “Are you saying that’s not true?”

Skye started to answer, but Wally beat her to it. “We don’t know. We suspect that may not have been entirely factual.”

“Because of that photo of me with the makeup on?” Jess guessed.

“Yes.” Wally spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Did you ever meet Suzette Neal, the singer from the Country Roads theater?”

“No.” Jess shook his head. “I didn’t go to the concert because I couldn’t get anyone to tend bar that night. I thought about closing since they were serving free booze, but I knew a few of my regulars would show up, so I didn’t.”

Skye murmured to Wally, “Her picture wasn’t on the flyer and Jess wasn’t at the Sunday morning meeting at the mayor’s office.”

Wally took a head shot out of the folder he had in front of him and passed it to Jess. “This is Suzette.”

“Suzie!” Jess stared at the image, his face ashen. “I kept telling my adoptive parents that I dreamed of having a sister named Suzie, but they told me I was an only child.”

“If Suzette was indeed your sister, you were twins,” Skye explained. “She was raised by an elderly aunt after her mother died in an accident and her father joined the military.” Skye mused, “I’m presuming she was told she was an only child as well.”

“But why would my adoptive parents lie to me and Suzette’s aunt lie to her?” Jess was so upset he was nearly crying.

“They probably thought a clean break would be easier for everyone concerned,” Skye soothed. “My guess is the aunt could handle only one child, and you were too energetic for her, so you were the one put up for adoption.”

“I was nearly kicked out of kindergarten for my behavior.” Jess gave a ragged laugh. “That’s when my mom decided to call me Jess instead of Jesse. The psychologist suggested I might be trying to live up to the Jesse James image.”

Ah,
Skye thought to herself.
That’s what Pru was trying to remember. Jesse James was an outlaw—or hellion, as Pru had so quaintly put it.
Aloud, Skye asked, “When’s your birthday?”

“September first, 1974.”

“That means that even if we eventually searched the birth records in all fifty states, we would have never found your birth certificate.” Wally tapped his chin with his index finger. “Suzette’s DOB was August thirty-first, 1974. You must have been born shortly after midnight.”

“That’s right—at twelve oh two a.m. So I did have a sister.” Jess’s tone was bitter. “All those years that we could have known each other were stolen from us, and now it’s too late.”

“The only way to be certain that you were Suzette’s twin is to compare your DNA to hers,” Wally cautioned.

“Sure,” Jess agreed. He slumped in his chair. “Whatever you need.”

 

After Jess left to get his cheek swabbed, Skye and Wally went upstairs to his office. Once they were behind closed doors, Wally said, “You agree he had no idea that Suzette was his sister?”

“Absolutely.” Skye pursed her lips. “Unless he’s a sociopath—and I’ve never seen any indication of that—then he was telling the complete truth.”

“That’s my feeling, too.”

“My only question is, how did he end up in Scumble River?” Skye furrowed her brow. “How did he end up with an adoptive mom who was related to someone in town? How did he and Suzette end up back here together ?”

“Maybe”—Wally crossed his arms—“Quentin Neal was friendly with Fayanne when he lived here. And after his wife died, he confided in her when he decided to put the twins up for adoption. Fayanne might then have put him in touch with her cousin, who she knew wanted children but couldn’t have them.”

“That could be it.” Skye nodded. “Come to think of it, I have one more question.” Skye looked sideways at Wally.

“What?”

“Are you upset with me for going to the Brown Bag with Simon?”

“Are you kidding?” Wally hesitated, obviously searching for the right words. “All I ask is that you tell me what you’re doing and why. Which you did. The only time I’d get mad is if you try to hide anything from me.”

“Thank you.” Skye wiped imaginary sweat from her brow. “That’s a relief.”

“Besides, you two found an answer to one of the bigger mysteries surrounding Suzette.”

“We did, didn’t we?” Skye grinned. “Still, I’m relieved you’re okay with what I did.”

Wally was showing Skye how okay he was when the intercom buzzed. He gave her one last lingering kiss, then pushed the button. “Yes?”

“It’s the Dooziers, Chief.” The dispatcher’s voice was resigned. “You better get over there right away. You won’t believe what they’re up to this time.”

“Crazy”

W
hen the dispatcher reported that the Dooziers had opened fire on their neighbors, Skye volunteered to accompany Wally to the scene of the crime. After five years of working at school with the endless supply of Doozier offspring, she had a friendly relationship with the eccentric family—unlike the other law enforcement employees in Scumble River and Stanley County.

Because of that rapport, she was hoping to act as a goodwill ambassador between the cops and the crackpots. But with the Dooziers, a breed unto themselves, there were no guarantees.

They lived by their wits, which should not be mistaken for smarts, and by their own set of rules, which should not be mistaken for what society calls
laws
. The latter was generally what got them into hot water. The former was generally how they got out without being scalded.

As Wally and Skye drove toward the Doozier property, she recalled a program she had attended her senior year in high school about the history of the town. The speaker had explained that the community had initially been confined to a fork between the two branches of the Scumble River but had eventually spread along both banks and beyond. That overflow was where they were heading now.

Skye remembered the historian talking about the two groups of people currently occupying the acreage along the south bank of the river. The newcomers had moved there from Chicago in the 1980s, and built summer cottages or retirement homes along a forested stretch of land. While these outsiders helped line the pockets of some Scumble Riverites and were welcomed by those town folks, they invaded the privacy of others. The others, who believed a good neighbor was one who lived far enough away to never be seen, were the original settlers known as the Red Raggers—of which the Dooziers were the ruling clan.

For the first couple of years, the interlopers and the Red Raggers had tested each other’s mettle, and eventually an uneasy alliance had been formed. Apparently, since shots had now been fired, that peace treaty must have been breached. Skye hoped it could be renegotiated without bloodshed.

Wally turned the squad car onto Cattail Path. They were entering Red Ragger country, and the first property they came to belonged to the Dooziers. It was shaped roughly like a right triangle, with the hypotenuse resting along the riverbank and the house situated at the smallest point. From the road, Wally and Skye could see only this tip, and from that limited vantage point there was no evidence of any disturbance.

But Skye wasn’t reassured. She was fairly certain the real action was taking place in the woods to the side of the house, as this was the land where the shortest leg of the triangle formed the boundary between the Dooziers and their nearest neighbor.

Wally parked and said to Skye, “Keep behind me until we know what’s going on.”

“Definitely.” The Dooziers might be her friends, but there was always the danger of getting shot by accident. And Wally was the one wearing the Kevlar vest.

He got out of the cruiser and Skye followed suit. The uneven ground in front of the run-down shack was covered with weeds and rocks. The carcasses of junked pickups, shells of old appliances, and a recently acquired troop of garden gnomes added to the obstacle course and forced them to pick their way gingerly toward the backyard.

At the gate, a crooked sign painted on a flattened carton read:

Skye was not surprised that the names of the weapons were among the few words the Dooziers had spelled correctly.

She and Wally peered over the fence. Several feet back, where the yard merged into the wooded area, a folding table with a pyramid of guns piled in the center teetered on crooked legs. Sitting with his cowboy boots propped up on the table’s surface was a skinny, densely tattooed man wearing a pair of jeans and several ammo belts crisscrossed over his bare chest. A camo bandanna tied around his head had slipped down over the upper third of his face, and empty beer cans were strewn next to his lawn chair like shiny red and silver leaves surrounding a scrawny maple tree.

Skye closed her eyes, praying it was all a hallucination. She could think of no positive outcome in a scenario that included a drunken Earl Doozier pretending to be Rambo.

Skye glanced at Wally and whispered, “What now?” It was never a good idea to startle an armed Doozier, especially an inebriated one.

Wally tried the gate; it was unlocked. Clearing his throat, he stepped over the metal threshold and said, “Earl, are you awake?”