Murder of a Creped Suzette

CHAPTER 20

“Desperado”

Skye rushed up the steps to the rectory and came to an abrupt halt. A piece of paper taped to the pillar read:

Members of the Low Self-Esteem Group

are reminded to use the back door.

Seriously? What was Father Burns thinking?

Skye shook her head and hurried inside. Wally was already waiting in the vestibule, sprawled on a wooden bench. His head rested against the beige wall and his eyes were closed. Not wanting to disturb him if he was catching a nap, she and Toby sat a few inches away from him.

Between the frustration of having no leads on the murder and the circumstances surrounding Darleen, Skye knew Wally hadn’t been sleeping well. At least the media furor had settled down for the time being. Thank goodness the reporters had been distracted by another Chicago politician caught with his hand in the till and his mistress hitting the talk show circuit.

“I’m awake.” Wally’s lids opened. “You can scoot closer.” His brown eyes looked affectionately at Skye. Once she was next to him, he said, “We now officially know the identity of our victim. The ME called this morning and confirmed she was Suzette.”

“Was there ever really a question in your mind?” Skye asked.

“No.” Wally shook his head. “Otherwise I would have conducted the investigation differently.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“I was just sitting here trying to figure out if there’s something I’m missing,” Wally explained. “Something I’ve overlooked in all the confusion.”

“I know what you mean.” Skye made a wry face. “Was she raped? Was her murderer someone from her past? And where is this mysterious brother of hers?”

“There’s nothing new from the Nashville police,” Wally said, putting an arm around her, “so I guess until we get the DNA results we’re stuck. And I could only request a fast turnaround for two of them, so if I chose wrong, the whole process could take a lot longer.”

“So all the guys you asked today agreed to be tested?” Skye asked.

“The construction crew was fine with it, but Taylor wasn’t too thrilled with the idea. Although he did it when I pointed out that matching the semen was our best chance at finding the killer and closing this case.” Wally smiled thinly. “Once he heard that, he said he’d issue an order to all his employees to cooperate.”

“I’m sure Rex wants the murder solved and forgotten so it doesn’t taint his big Branson of Illinois plans.” Skye leaned her head on Wally’s shoulder. “Did you tell him that his wife and James were the only people without alibis?”

“Nope.”

“Anything new from Darleen or her boyfriend?”

“No.” Wally ran his thumb down her cheek. “I’m not expecting any communication from them until I call tonight.”

“Right.” Skye snuggled closer. “Have you thought about what you’ll do if Darleen sends a statement disputing what you’ve said about your marriage? If she writes the wrong kind of letter—a dishonest one—you might not be able to get an annulment.”

Before Wally could respond, Father Burns swung open his office door and ushered them inside. He was in his early sixties and had been the pastor at Saint Francis for as long as Skye could remember. It was unusual for a priest to remain in a parish for so long, but his flock loved him and would be devastated if he was ever reassigned.

Once the priest was introduced to Toby, and Skye and Wally were seated on leather wing chairs facing the desk, Father Burns said, “I understand you have a question about your annulment, Wally.”

“Yes. Something unusual has come up.” Wally explained the situation with Darleen in a neutral voice, but his jaw tightened when he asked, “Would a letter like that slow down the annulment or prevent it altogether?”

“Since it would clearly be a document written to punish Wally for not giving her money and would, in fact, contain blatant lies, would it even be considered, Father ?” Skye took Wally’s hand and squeezed it.

“I’m afraid so.” His ageless face was grave. “Although, with corroboration from other witnesses that the document was spurious, it would only delay the process, not halt it completely.”

“In other words”—Wally narrowed his eyes—“it would be best if an untruthful letter was never written?”

“Yes, better to have no input from your ex-wife than one that differs from your view of the marriage.” Father Burns sat motionlessly, his gaunt body ramrod straight. “Not that I’m advocating paying Mrs. Boyd or her companion in order to accomplish that goal.”

“Of course not, Father.” Skye reached down and stroked Toby. “That would be wrong.”

“But,” Wally said, without looking at Skye, “if things turn out badly, we may need to reconsider our decision to wait for an annulment before marrying.”

Father Burns was silent for a moment, his dark, serious eyes studying them; then he said, “As I explained the last time we met, the Church’s stance is that matrimony is both binding and lifelong. The annulment procedure is used to determine if an essential element, which prevented the sacramental union promised, was missing when the couple entered into the marriage.”

“Understood,” Wally acknowledged. “But since Darleen left me for another man, we should have that covered—with or without any comment from her.”

“It will help.” Father Burns fingered the Bible in front of him. “Although what you really need to prove is that you had prior knowledge that there was a missing element or something was fundamentally wrong right from the very beginning of your marriage.”

“Okay.” Wally didn’t hesitate. “I advised you the last time we were here that I wanted to back out of my marriage to Darleen on the eve of the wedding, but I didn’t inform you that I told my best man that same thing the night before the ceremony. We aren’t on good terms now, so I didn’t want to have to involve him, but he’ll cooperate by confirming that.”

“Excellent. A witness is always good.” The priest nodded solemnly. “Anything else?”

“Darleen and I fought almost from the first day of our marriage.” A flicker of impatience crossed Wally’s eyes, but his voice was unruffled. “It’ll be awkward, but any number of people can testify to that.”

“I’m sorry for your embarrassment, but those people’s statements will help to disprove a letter such as the one you described.” A corner of the priest’s lips turned up slightly. “I do understand that for a non-Catholic such as you, this process must appear absurd, but without it your marriage to Skye will not be valid in the eyes of the Church.”

“Believe me, I understand how much this means to her.” Wally looked at Skye, who nodded.

“This great act of self-giving love will only make your marriage stronger.” Father Burns looked heavenward and added, “God doesn’t always give us only what we can handle. But He does help us handle what we are given.”

Skye heard Wally grind his teeth, so she hastily rose from her chair. “Thank you, Father. We won’t keep you any longer.”

As the priest ushered them to the door, it occurred to Skye that he might have known Quentin Neal. “Do you have one more minute, Father?”

“Certainly, my dear.” The priest paused with his hand on the knob.

“Do you remember a man by the name of Quentin Neal?” Skye held tight to Toby’s leash as the little dog lurched toward the exit. “He was active in the choir about twenty-seven years ago.”

“He doesn’t sound familiar.” Father Burns stepped over to a wooden stand and opened a large book, flipping through the pages. “Ah, that’s why I don’t remember him. He was here only ten months in 1978, and that was the year I was on sabbatical in Rome.”

“Rats!” They just couldn’t catch a break. “Are the names of his family members listed?”

“No. Sorry.” The priest ran his finger over the paper. “Only he was a member.”

“How about an address?” Skye crossed her fingers that she could narrow down the location. Noreen had remembered only the name of the street.

“That is here.” Father Burns leaned forward and read, “Thirteen oh eight Singer Lane.”

“Terrific.”

Just before Skye and Wally stepped across the threshold, Father Burns said, “Something to think about. Everyone wants to live on top of the mountain, but a lot of happiness and self-growth happen while you’re climbing it.”

After thanking the priest, Skye and Wally strolled out to the parking lot together. The leaves were finally changing colors. A shower of rust, orange, and yellow rained down on them as they walked beneath a massive old oak tree. Skye giggled and Wally brushed them from her hair and shoulders. They lingered there for a few minutes, enjoying the beauty of their surroundings and each other.

Eventually Skye turned serious. She gave Wally one last lingering kiss and said, “You aren’t going to pay Darleen, right?”

“No.” He shook his head. “If she writes that negative letter, I’ll round up the witnesses that support my view of the marriage.”

“And you’ll be willing to wait for the annulment?” Skye persisted as they walked toward their cars, Toby prancing by her side.

“Yes.” Wally cupped her cheek and gave her a serious look. “But if that happens, I’d like you to consider us living together.”

“If it’s more than a year delay, I will consider it,” Skye promised.

“It’s a deal.” Wally kissed her forehead. “Do you want to get a quick bite before I go back to work?”

“No.” Skye opened the Bel Air’s door. “I’m going to knock on doors near that address on Singer Lane. Maybe one of the neighbors will remember the Neals and their children.”

“Okay, but be careful.” Wally kissed Skye and patted Toby. “I’ll come over to your house after I make the call to Darleen’s boyfriend.”

“Good.” Skye put the dog in the Chevy’s backseat and slid behind the wheel. “I’ll pick up some food from the grocery store deli, and we can have a late supper.”

Skye drove to McDonald’s and parked her Bel Air in the back lot. After crossing Stebler Road, she and Toby hiked the length of Singer Lane—all two blocks of it. When she got to the end at Chestnut Court, she turned around and walked back, this time on the opposite side of the street.

No one was outside, which wasn’t surprising since it was a few minutes before six and most folks would have just finished dinner. The average Scumble Riverite ate lunch at noon, supper at five, and then settled down in front of the TV for the rest of the evening.

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.”