Murder of a Botoxed Blonde (3 page)

As the last of the children completed the circuit, the teachers marched their students into their classrooms for refreshments and games. Skye was considering going to the special education classroom to see if she could help with their party when the PA system squawked, “Ms. Denison, please come to the office.”

Skye felt a frisson of unease at the announcement. It was exceedingly unusual for her to be summoned via PA at the grade school. While the high school principal called for Skye’s assistance at the first sign of an angry parent or sticky situation, the elementary school principal went to the other extreme, handling everything but the most severe matters on her own. Skye hurried toward the front of the school, a line of worry appearing between her eyebrows as she wondered What could have happened.

When she entered the school office, she saw a stunningly beautiful woman who seemed somewhat familiar standing at the counter.

Skye nodded to her, then said to Fern Otte, the school secretary, “You sent for me?”

“Yes.” Fern clipped off the word, giving it an impatient edge. She was a tiny woman whose affinity for brown clothing enhanced her resemblance to a wren.

Skye wasn’t sure what had put the ticked-off look in Fern’s small black eyes, but she hoped it wasn’t something she had done. Getting on Fern’s bad side was a career-limiting move. Behind the secretary’s mild façade, she ran the office as if it were the Department of Motor Vehicles—everyone took a number, waited their turns, and kept their mouths shut.

The silence lengthened until finally Fern said, “This”—the pause was almost imperceptible—”person insisted I summon you, and refused to give a reason.”

“Oh.” Skye looked toward the woman causing Fern’s pique; Skye had to be careful not to appear to be taking her side against the secretary. “I’m Skye Denison. You wanted to see me?”

“I’m Margot Avanti. Is there somewhere we could speak in private?”

“Is this about one of our students?”

Margot ignored Skye’s question and restated her request, “I’d prefer to speak to you alone.”

Skye gave Fern an apologetic look, and said to Margot, “We can use my office, but I’m afraid it isn’t air-conditioned.”

“Fine.”

Skye led the way to her office. The woman followed, the only sound the click of her high heels on the worn gray linoleum.

In order to break the silence, Skye attempted a small joke. “I have to apologize for my office. I’m sure you’ve heard about the ‘No Child Left Behind’ law, but what we really need is a ‘No School Psychologist Stuck in a Broom Closet’ law.”

The woman looked at Skye blankly, then carefully studied the interior of Skye’s office before stepping inside. The room contained a small desk and two metal folding chairs. It had started life as a storage room for the cafeteria, and a faint odor of sour milk still permeated the air.

Once they sat down, Skye asked, “What can I do for you, Ms. Avanti?” as she tried to edge her scat back a little. With her knees nearly touching the other woman’s, Skye felt as if they were about to play patty cake.

“Please call me Margot.” Despite the heat, the woman’s ash blond hair remained perfectly straight, her makeup was intact, and her Yves Saint Laurent blouse and skirt were crisp and unwrinkled.

“Margot it is.” Skye had a strong sense of having seen the woman previously. “We haven’t met before, have we?”

“No, Ms. Denison, I don’t think so, but”—Margot’s smile was smug—”you’ve probably seen me in magazines or on TV. I was one of the top American models before I retired a few years ago.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Now Skye recalled seeing Margot in an ad for very expensive jewelry. She had been wearing diamonds and not much more. “By the way, please call me Skye.”

“That’s a beautiful name.” Margot tilted her head. “Do you have sisters called Sun, Moon, and Cloud?”

“No, just a brother named Vince.” Skye studied Margot, trying to decide if the woman was mocking her. Margot’s face had an eerie perfection that showed little emotion, making her as hard to read as a game show host.

Finally, Skye gave up trying to guess the woman’s intentions, and asked again, “Why did you want to see me?”

Margot reached into her purse and handed Skye a brochure. “My husband and I are opening a beauty spa and resort on the old Bruefeld Estate.”

“Yes, I’ve heard a spa was coming to town. How did you happen to choose Scumble River?”

Skye’s question was one that most of the townspeople were asking. Opening a spa in the rural community seemed as silly to them as trying to farm a few acres in the center of Chicago’s Grant Park. Scumble River had a population of three thousand, and was located in the middle of the Illinois prairie. There was little to recommend it to the wealthy clientele most spas attracted.

“My husband, Dr. Creighton Burnett, discovered that the mud of the Scumble River, as it goes past the Bruefeld Estate, is rich in sulfur, iron, manganese, and nickel, and has a salt rate of twenty-seven percent. When our own secret ingredient is added, it is the perfect formula for smoothing and softening the skin and making it look young again.”

“I see. But do you really think women will travel to the middle of nowhere just for some mud?”

“Not just some mud, Miracle Mud. Wouldn’t you go out of your way to find the Fountain of Youth?”

Skye shrugged. “I guess some people might.” She certainly wanted to look nice, and wasn’t opposed to using moisturizers and makeup to shave off a few years, but flying hundreds or thousands of miles to bathe in mud was beyond what she was willing to do to look young. “But—”

Margot cut off Skye. “I can’t understand why you people aren’t thrilled to have a new business.” The spa owner’s sapphire eyes glinted with impatience, but her
expression remained unchanged, as if she were incapable of frowning. “We’re creating jobs, bringing in people who will spend money here—why is everyone so damned negative?”

Margot’s attack surprised Skye, and she tried to explain, realizing she hadn’t been as diplomatic as she might have been. “I can’t speak for the whole town, but I’m sure their skepticism comes from a lack of understanding, and maybe doubts that people will come here for a stay, rather than anything against you or your business.”

“You’re probably right.” Margot did an abrupt about-face, her shoulders drooping. “And I can see how you people might think that way, but we’re going to succeed. My husband and I have put all our money into this project. Nothing and no one will stand in our way.”

“I’m sure no one will intentionally try and make the spa fail, no matter what the town gossips say about it.” Skye leaned slightly forward and patted Margot’s hand, wondering why the woman was telling
her
all this.

“That’s just it. Someone
is
trying to sabotage us. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

“Me? Why?”

Margot flipped back the oval clasp on her crocodile purse, reached in, and thrust a sheaf of newspaper clippings into Skye’s hands. “Because you’re the Scumble River Nancy Drew. Everyone tells me you’re the only one who can solve the mystery.”

“People exaggerate.” Skye noticed the spa owner’s purse was a Dolce & Gabbana, which probably retailed for five hundred a pop. Margot didn’t need Skye’s help; she could afford to hire the best private investigator in Chicago. “I’m a school psychologist, not a detective. You should be talking to the police.”

“I have. They took my information, came out to the spa, and looked around. They said there wasn’t much they could do. They only have one or two officers on duty at any one time, and I need someone twenty-four/seven if I want to catch the vandal.”

“Then you need to hire a security firm, not me.” Skye tried to avoid looking into the woman’s desperate eyes.

“I did hire a firm. They’ve been on my payroll an entire month and haven’t caught anyone.” Margot pointed to the clippings in Skye’s hand. “All these stories are about you solving murders no one else could figure out.”

“The newspaper overstated my contribution.” Skye flipped through the articles Margot had handed her, wishing she could convince Kathryn Steele, the owner of the
Scumble River Star
, to quit doing stories on her and go back to putting people who built houses from Popsicle sticks on the front page.

“According to the latest piece, you signed on as a consultant for the local police.”

“True,” Skye admitted. “But I only help as a psychological consultant, not as a detective.”

“That’s what we need. Someone who can talk to people and figure out why they’re doing this to us,” Margot pleaded. “It’s nothing big, but it’s all extremely annoying. Outside, they’ve dug holes everywhere. We’ve had to replace so much sod I feel like we should buy it by the truck-load. Inside, they’ve ripped open the plaster. Tools and personal items have gone missing, doors are jammed, and at night we hear the most ungodly noises. I’m afraid if this continues once we have paying guests, the spa will fail.” Margot pulled a checkbook from her open purse. “Name your fee.”

Skye shook her head. “I’m not a licensed private detective. I can’t accept money. Besides, I already have a job. I just don’t have time to investigate. You need someone who could move in and observe everyone around the clock.”

“Please, just think about it.” Margot reached into her bag once more, this time producing a business card and brochure. “If we haven’t found the culprit in the next three weeks, please come for the ‘dry run’ opening. We’re offering the local women four nights at half price over the long Thanksgiving weekend, so it wouldn’t look odd that you were there. Of course, your stay and a friend’s would
be free of charge, with all the spa treatments and amenities included.”

Skye thanked the woman, and said she’d consider it. She walked Margot Avanti to the front door and waved goodbye. As she made her way back to her cramped, hot office, Skye was tempted by the spa owner’s offer, then shook her head. Nothing was ever free.

“
Y
ou what?” Trixie Frayne squealed, popping up from her chair and bouncing on her heels as if she were Tigger. She and Skye were in Skye’s office at the high school. “Are you out of your mind? Why would you turn down a free vacation at a spa?”

Skye sat behind her desk with her feet propped on the open lower drawer, watching her friend. Trixie was the high school librarian. She also coached the cheerleading squad and cosponsored the school newspaper with Skye. Trixie’s energy level made a Chihuahua look sedate.

“You can still call and change your mind, right?” Trixie gazed pleadingly at Skye.

“Sure, unless they caught the vandal last night. But why should I?”

“Because,” Trixie drawled the word, making it several syllables, “you and I could catch whoever’s messing around the first day, then we’d have the rest of the weekend to be pampered.”

“What makes you think we could catch this trespasser so fast?”

“Didn’t you see today’s
Star
?” Trixie demanded.

“No. You may get yours delivered to the school library, but I need to wait until I get home. Besides, what does the town newspaper have to do with capturing the vandal?”

“There was an article about the new spa on the front page. It said that there’s a hidden treasure on the Bruefeld Estate, and the house and grounds are cursed.”

“You’re kidding.” Skye fought her curiosity.

“Nope. It said that the property was originally owned by a millionaire, who, when he lost everything in the crash of 1929, killed his wife, then committed suicide. The newspaper even dug up a story that before the crash, the wife hid a million dollars in jewels that have never been found. The estate’s next several owners also either lost money or their lives, and the property has been unoccupied for the past thirty years.”

“Interesting.”

“So, what do you think?” Trixie asked. “Is it jinxed?”

“I doubt it. The ‘curse’ sounds like something the newspaper dreamed up. I’ve never heard of it, and considering that several of my aunts are the queens of gossip around here, I’m sure I would have.” Skye considered the estate’s history. “My guess is that something that old, that big, and that costly is bound to have an out-of-the-ordinary history. I’m sure the paper just didn’t report the happy families that lived there.”

Trixie shrugged. “Anyway, I’ll bet the vandal that’s been bugging the new owners is someone who already knew about the treasure and is looking for it. The holes in the ground and in the walls are obviously a result of someone searching for the jewelry, and the other vandalism is to delay the spa from opening to give the person more time to find the treasure.”

“You know,” Skye scratched her chin, “that’s not a bad guess.”

“It means we could set a trap for him or her, and catch ‘em in the act without breaking a sweat.”

“Maybe”—Skye’s tone was stubborn—”but I’m still not going to take Margot up on her offer.”

“Why not?”

“First, Mom would kill me if I missed Thanksgiving with the family.”

Trixie finally sat down. “You don’t have to. The spa is five minutes from your mom’s house. I’ll drive you myself.”