Murder of a Botoxed Blonde (33 page)

Skye waited until everyone understood, then added, “The Dooziers also wanted an easier way to hunt for the treasure. They were behind all the pre-opening vandalism. They
wanted to delay the spa from being ready for guests until they found the jewelry.”

“So Amber used the hidden door?” Justin asked.

“No. That was Elvis.” Skye glanced around and saw confusion on most faces. “Unfortunately, he fell in love with Amber and when she didn’t return his affection, he turned to stalking her, using the hidden door to gain access to the spa.”

“He saw her commit the murder, right?” Trixie guessed.

“Yep, he watched her go into the treatment room after Ustelle left, then come out covered in mud. After the news of the murder came out, he must have figured out what had happened and he threatened her with exposure if she didn’t date him.” Skye turned to Frannie. “It was him on the phone the day we were getting manicures and Amber had to leave.”

Frannie hit her head. “So, that was why Amber was so freaked out about me talking to him. She thought he had told me about her being the murderer.”

“Exactly.” Skye nodded, then asked, “What
did
he tell you?”

Frannie hesitated, then answered, “He told me he knew where the treasure was, and I could be there when he dug it up to write a story about him. I guess he didn’t really know since Simon found it and not him.”

Justin shook his head. “Up to that point, those girls were really smart, weren’t they?”

“Maybe.” Skye made a face. “But like I saw on a T-shirt the other day, the difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits.”

S
chool psychologist Skye Denison had endured the situation for as long as she could. Improvements on the outside were well and good, but they didn’t make her feel any better about the ugliness on the inside. It was time to put an end to her suffering.

She ignored the ringing telephone. There really wasn’t anyone she wanted to talk to badly enough to untie the rope, climb down from the ladder, and find the phone in the mess she had created in her dining room. She sighed with relief when the ringing stopped, but let out a small scream of frustration when it started right up again.

Evidently, whoever was calling knew that her answering machine picked up on the fourth ring and was hanging up after the third. This meant it was someone who called her on a regular basis. Skye paused as she tightened the knot. Who would be so determined to reach her that they would keep punching the redial button again and again?

It wasn’t her boyfriend, Wally Boyd, chief of the Scumble River police department. He had phoned earlier canceling their date for that night with the lame excuse that “something had come up.” His call had been the start of her bad day.

Another possibility was her best friend, Trixie Frayne, school librarian and Skye’s co-sponsor of the school newspaper, but they had already spoken. Trixie had called to tell Skye that one of the parents was suing
The Scoop
for slander, and Trixie and Skye were scheduled to meet with the district’s lawyer at seven a.m. on Monday. Homer Knapik, the high school principal, would have a cow when he heard the news—then make Skye and Trixie shovel the manure.

A quick glance at her watch and Skye knew it couldn’t be her brother, Vince. Saturday morning was the busiest time at his hair salon. And Skye’s godfather, Charlie Patukas, the owner of the Up a Lazy River Motor Court, wouldn’t bother with repeated calls; he’d just jump in his Caddy and come over. After all, there were few places in Scumble River, Illinois, that were more than a five-or ten-minute drive.

Shoot! That left only one person, and she would never stop dialing until Skye answered. Moaning in surrender, Skye made sure the rope holding the chandelier up out of the way was tied tightly, and reluctantly climbed down the ladder. She waited for the next group of rings to help locate the phone, then picked up the edge of the tarp she had put down to protect the hardwood floor, and grabbed the receiver.

“It’s about time you answered.” The voice of May Denison pounded into Skye’s ear. “There’s a family emergency. Get over here right away.”

Skye growled in aggravation as her mother hung up without further explanation. Then her mother’s words penetrated the fog of her bad mood.
Emergency!
Had something happened to Skye’s father? Her grandmother? One of her countless aunts, uncles, or cousins?

A busy signal greeted Skye’s repeated attempts to call back. No doubt May had taken the phone off the hook to force Skye to come over as ordered, rather than phone and ask questions.

Catching her reflection as she hurried past the foyer mirror, Skye hesitated. Her chestnut curls were scraped back into a bushy ponytail, the only paint on her face was the Tiffany blue she was using on her dining room walls, which
did nothing for her green eyes, and the orange sweat suit she had put on to work in made her look like a big, round pumpkin.

Shaking her head, she decided it would take too much time to transform herself into a presentable human being, and instead grabbed her jacket, purse, and keys from the coat stand. She ran out of the house and leapt into the 1957 Bel Air convertible her father and godfather had restored for her a few years ago after several unfortunate incidents that left her previous cars undrivable.

The Chevy was a boat of a car, which made it hard to lay rubber, but Skye stomped on the accelerator and the Bel Air flew down the blacktop, white vapor pouring out of the tailpipe in the below-zero temperature. Seven-and-a-half minutes later Skye wheeled into her parent’s driveway and skidded to a halt on the icy film covering the gravel.

Where were all the vehicles? If there was a family emergency, the driveway should be packed with cars and trucks. Did her mom need a ride to the emergency? No, May’s white Olds was parked in the garage. What the heck was going on?

Skye flung herself out of the Bel Air, jogged up the sidewalk, and across the small patio to the back door. She spared a glance at the concrete goose squatting at the corner. Except for the holidays, when it was dressed as anything from a Halloween witch to an Easter Bunny, its costume was usually a good barometer for May’s mood. Given that it was January 10, too late for New Year’s and too early for Valentine’s Day, the fact that it was wearing an apron and a tiny chef’s hat, and had a rolling pin clutched in its wing, must mean something, but darned if Skye had a clue as to what.

Shrugging, she continued into the house, calling, “Mom, what’s going on? What’s the emergency?”

Silence greeted her as she dashed through the utility room’s swinging doors and into the kitchen. Still no sign of her mother, but Skye slid to a stop as her gaze swept past the counter peninsula and reached the dinette.

Skye felt all the blood drain from her head and the room start to sway as she stared at the table. She sank to her knees
and closed her eyes, hoping she was dreaming or having a hallucination, but when she opened her eyes again the wedding cake was still sitting there—three layers of pristine white frosting with delicate pink roses and a vine of ivy trailing down its side.

Surely, even May, a women desperate for her daughter to get married and produce grandkids, wouldn’t throw an emergency wedding.