Murder of a Botoxed Blonde (31 page)

Frannie sat up straight and stared at the ceiling. “It was a
mess, clothes and toiletries everywhere.” She continued, ending with, “And this really cool black lace over white nylon tunic. Do you think I could find one in my size?”

Skye nodded absentmindedly. She hadn’t heard anything that would help them, but she said, “That was great, Frannie. Can you do the same thing with Amber’s room?”

“Sure.” Frannie’s voice was confident. “We spent more time there because she had a fridge and …” Her words skittered to a stop and she looked up at both adults with wide eyes. “And she had some vials in it, like the kind you see at the doctor’s that he sticks the needles into before he gives you a shot.”

Skye’s mind leaped back to the first night and she smacked her knee. “Trixie, do you remember at dinner on Wednesday, Margot mentioned that Amber is diabetic?”

“Oh, my gosh, you’re right.” Trixie’s words spurted out. “A diabetic needs insulin, but giving insulin to someone who isn’t a diabetic will produce insulin shock, which eventually results in a coma.”

Skye cut in when Trixie took a breath. “And since Amber is working here as a makeup artist, I’ll bet Esmé would trust her to give her Botox injections, especially after Dr. Burnett turned her down. And Botox treatments involve several injections, so Amber could have given Esmé a massive dose of insulin, which along with Esmé being extremely thin and probably not having eaten much of anything—I didn’t see her at breakfast that morning—would work really quickly.”

“But why didn’t Ustelle or Kipp spot Amber?”

“Amber probably injected Esmé with the insulin before Esmé went down in the mud bath treatment room. Then Amber waited for her opportunity, knowing that Ustelle nearly always left her clients if there was any chance to get away. Once Ustelle left, Amber checked, found Esmé unconscious from insulin shock, and pushed her under the mud.”

“But why did she bring her CD player?” Frannie frowned. “Did she want music to commit murder by?”

“Because she wasn’t sure that the insulin would render Esmé completely unconscious, and she wanted something
that would cover up any noise her victim might make,” Skye answered, then added, “Which is why Amber didn’t just let her die from insulin shock, it was too iffy. Someone might find her in time to revive her.”

Trixie screwed up her face. “Granted, Amber had means and opportunity, but what’s her motive?”

They were all silent as they considered Trixie’s question until Frannie mused out loud, “Now if it were Amber’s stepmother, I’d understand. Amber hated Sheila’s guts, especially after she got pregnant.”

Skye’s gaze fastened on Frannie and she demanded, “Say that again.”

“What?” Frannie’s expression was puzzled. “If Amber’s stepmother had been the one murdered, Amber’d definitely be the killer?”

“Yes. That’s got to be it.” Skye jumped to her feet. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

“Sure of what?” Trixie urged.

“Do you remember that first dinner we had, when Mar-got mentioned that Whitney and Amber had been reunited around the time that Amber’s stepmother died?”

“Yes.” Trixie drew her brows together. “So? Are you saying Amber killed her?”

“No. Whitney did it for Amber.” Skye’s tone was confident. “And in return, Amber killed Esmé for Whitney. That way neither had a motive for the murder they actually committed.”

“
Strangers on a Train
,” Trixie murmured.

“Huh?” Apparently Frannie was not a Hitchcock fan.

“It’s a movie made in the fifties, where two men each agree to kill off someone the other wants dead.”

Frannie nodded excitedly. “That makes sense. Amber and Whitney love old movies.”

“That’s what’s been bothering me.” Skye smacked her knee. “Whitney claimed she wasn’t really friendly with Amber, and we, the adults, never saw them together socially at the spa. But because Frannie was closer to their age, and made a point of hanging out with one or the other, she did. Frannie just told us they were often in each other’s
rooms and shared their stuff to the extent that Frannie didn’t even know what belonged to Amber and what belonged to Whitney.”

“That’s right.” Trixie nodded. “Why deny a friendship unless it was important that people not associate you with the other person?”

Skye felt galvanized. “Okay, here’s the plan. I need to find Wally, so he can check how Amber’s stepmother died. And let’s hope he can get a search warrant for her room.”

“Why wouldn’t he be able to?” Frannie asked.

“I don’t know if we have enough evidence to convince a judge to issue one,” Skye answered distractedly, then said to Trixie, “Can you go get our suitcases and check us out?”

“Sure.”

“Frannie, you absolutely cannot tell anyone about this conversation until I’ve spoken to Wally. I want you to go get your stuff and Miss Bunny, and meet Trixie at the reception desk. Okay?”

Frannie nodded, but made a face. “I know not to tell anyone. I wish you’d stop treating me like a baby.”

“Sorry.” Skye was too distracted to take the time to deal with Frannie’s resentment, but she made a mental note to try to smooth things out later. As she hurried toward the door, she flung over her shoulder, “Trixie, make sure Mom and Loretta check out, too. I’ll meet you all in the lobby. Everyone needs to be safely gone if Wally comes back with the search warrant.”

“Will do.”

Skye ran down the hallway and out the rear door toward the cottages, hoping Wally would still be there. When she arrived he was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, she remembered the police radio in her fanny pack. Feeling like an idiot for having forgotten it, and wasted time, she took a deep breath and glanced around.

It looked all clear, so she took the radio out and keyed the mike. “Wally, this is Skye. Are you there?”

A few seconds later Wally’s voice echoed thinly, “Go ahead.”

“I have some urgent information.”

“Not over the radio. Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I’m fine,” Skye answered. “I’m on the path between the VIP cottages.”

“Stay put. Be there in ten. I’m back at the police department.”

She found an out-of-the-way bench and sat down. While she waited, Skye went over everything in her head. She was sure she was right. Amber was the killer.

Time ticked by slowly, with Skye checking her watch every few minutes. Finally, at exactly one o’clock, she saw Wally hurrying down the path. She sprang up, and grabbed his hand, dragging him back to her secluded bench.

She checked to make sure they were alone, then told him the whole story, concluding with, “So, when Frannie mentioned the insulin vials in Amber’s fridge, everything snapped into place.”

“It makes an awful kind of sense.” Wally leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring into space. “I’ll find out how Amber’s stepmother died, and if it’s at all suspicious, I should be able to convince a judge to give me a warrant. I wish Whitney wasn’t leaving, but at least Amber’s staying right here.”

They got up, and she said, “What I can’t quite grasp is what would make two girls want their stepmothers dead that badly? It’s not as if they were children and had to live at home, or that the stepmothers were beating them.”

“We’ve both seen worse.” Wally gave her a quick kiss, then turned toward the parking lot. “Luckily, we usually see better.”

As she rushed toward the lobby, Skye smiled, happy that Wally was still optimistic after all his years in law enforcement. So many police officers shown on TV were burnt-out. It was a relief to know that the real-life cop she was involved with wasn’t like that.

When Skye got to the lobby it was empty except for Trixie pacing frantically with the telephone receiver in her hand. Skye asked, “Who are you calling?”

“Wally, but the dispatcher put me on hold before I could tell her it was an emergency.”

“What emergency and where is everyone?” Skye asked, alarmed.

“The mass exodus took place about ten minutes ago. I sent your mom, Loretta, Bunny, and Spike along with the rest of them.”

“What about Frannie?”

“She never showed up. Bunny said she came to their room, gave Bunny your message about checking out, and asked Bunny to take her suitcase downstairs.”

“No one’s seen her since then?” Skye’s alarm intensified.

“No. As soon as I realized she was missing, I called the police. I’ve been waiting on hold ever since.”

Skye tried the police radio, but got no response. “We’d better go look for her ourselves. We can ask a security guard to come with us.”

Trixie made a face. “Good idea, but as of one o’clock, Margot gave everyone the rest of the day off. The staff poured out of here like water over Niagara Falls. They were gone before most of the guests.”

“Shit!” Skye ran up the stairs with Trixie close behind. “Did you see Whitney and Amber leave?”

“No, but Whitney could have left with her dad earlier, and Amber could have used another exit.” Trixie looked right, then left. “Which way?”

Skye paused for a nanosecond, then said, “Amber’s room.”

They sprinted up the attic stairs. The staff floor was decorated very differently than the public and guest areas of the spa. Instead of rich wallpaper, industrial off-white paint covered the walls. The floors were linoleum instead of marble, and the light fixtures utilitarian rather than elegant.

Skye could imagine how unhappy Amber would be in this environment after having grown up in a Kenilworth mansion. Skye shivered. It seemed colder up here, too, as if the furnace had been shut off, or maybe the hallway wasn’t heated.

The door to Amber’s room was shut, but they could hear Frannie clearly through the cheap plywood. “I really need to
go now. Miss Bunny will be waiting for me, and she’s not the patient type.”

“But I thought you wanted to know about my poor stepmother’s tragic death.” Amber’s tone was mocking and they heard the rattle of a newspaper. “It’s just like they reported in the
Trib
, the paper I caught you stealing from my closet. Sheila committed suicide by overdosing on her own sleeping pills after drinking too much vodka.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that’s that then.” Frannie’s voice was slightly unsteady. “Gotta go. Can’t miss my ride.”

“Not just yet. What did Elvis say to you this morning at breakfast?”

“Elvis? The dead singer? You think he talks to me?” Frannie’s voice sounded strained.

“Don’t try to be cute.” Amber’s words were like knives, intent on causing damage. “You’re too fat to pull it off. Elvis Doozier. What were you two talking about in the dining room this morning?”

“I promised not to tell.”

“Why? Did he let you in on a big secret?”

“I can’t say.” Frannie’s footsteps came toward the door.

“Since you’re so interested in our business, if you tell us what Elvis told you, we’ll tell you the real story of my stepmother’s death.”

“That sounds like an interesting story, but I don’t have time right now. Maybe we could e-mail.” Frannie sounded as if she were right on the other side of the door. “Miss Bunny will be wondering what’s happened to me.”

“It’s good that you have adults who worry about you.” Whitney’s tone was wistful. “At least someone will be sad when you turn up missing.”

“Why would I be missing?” Frannie’s voice was even shakier this time.

“Because we know what Elvis told you, and we can’t let you tell anyone else.”

“Too late.” Frannie’s bravado sounded near the breaking point. “I already told Ms. D and Mrs. Frayne when we had lunch together today.”

There was a sudden hush, then a low buzz of conversation that
Skye couldn’t hear. Did Elvis know that Amber had killed Esmé, and if so how had he found out?

Finally, Amber said, “We don’t believe you. If you had told those two nosy bitches the police would already be here.”

“Chief Boyd is getting a warrant as we spe—”

Amber’s scream cut Frannie off in midword, “Bullshit!” Skye heard Amber take a deep breath, then say, “But just in case you’re telling the truth, we’d better hurry this up.” Her voice rang out like a judge sentencing a criminal to the electric chair.

At that moment, Skye knew Amber and Whitney were going to kill Frannie. She wished she could see what was happening inside the room; she’d give anything for an old-fashioned keyhole right now. She reached out and gingerly tried the knob and was surprised when it turned easily in her hand. She gave Trixie a look that said, “Ready?”

Trixie nodded, reached into her purse, and pulled out the mace. Skye took out her own can. She already had her fanny pack open and the police radio keyed to transmit. She only hoped Wally was hearing all this. They positioned themselves on either side of the frame, like they had seen on every cop show, and pushed in the door.

The three girls wheeled around. “How long have you been there?” Amber demanded.

“Long enough to hear you threatening Frannie.” Skye held up her police radio. “And I’ve had this on the whole time, so all of Scumble River heard you. You might as well turn yourself in.” Skye tried to sound confident.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Abruptly, Amber grabbed Frannie and put her arm around the teen’s throat; her other hand pressed a pair of hairstyling shears just below Frannie’s eye. “Throw down the mace or I’ll cut her so bad she’ll never sec again, and have to wear a veil for the rest of her life.” She dragged Frannie toward the door, Whitney crowding close behind.

Suddenly, Frannie stopped and slumped to the floor. Frannie’s heavier weight pulled the lighter girl off balance
and Skye saw her chance. She leaped on Amber, spraying the mace directly in her eyes.

Trixie grabbed Whitney’s arm and commanded, “Stand still, or I’ll give you some of the same.”

Amber had dropped the scissors and was clawing at her eyes. Skye was distracted by a moan from the floor and she bent down to see if Frannie was all right. As soon as she took her eyes off Amber, the girl ran from the room.

Trixie renewed her hold on Whitney and barked, “Don’t even think of it.”

Skye hesitated, but Frannie said, “I’m fine, go ahead.”

Even with her eyes burning, Amber was younger and in better shape than Skye—she was nowhere in sight. Skye cautiously tried the doors down the hall; all were locked. That meant Amber had to have gone down the stairs.