Murder of a Botoxed Blonde

by Denise Swanson

  She hesitated, thinking maybe the woman was settling another guest into the bath, since the brochure indicated two tubs were available.

  As she stood there, unsure of what to do, Skye looked around. Besides the desk and chair next to the door leading into the mud bath room, there was a wall with several shower heads attached and drains along the floor, nearby a rolling cabinet of the special silvery colored towels that were the spa’s trademark, and a small alcove with a shampoo sink and chair.

  Shoot. She hated waiting, but she didn’t want to have to walk all the way back to the main reception area. She tried calling out, “Miss, Miss. I’m here for my nine-thirty appointment.” Could the attendant hear her over the loud music? She moved closer to the closed treatment room door and raised her voice. “Anybody there?”

  Still no answer.

  She should turn on her heels and get Margot. No, that was silly. She’d just take a little peek. If the attendant was busy she’d wait; if no one was there, she’d leave.

  Her flip-flops made a soft flapping sound as she crossed the small space. She nearly stepped on a wadded towel stained with greenish-brown steaks laying on the floor near the door. She reached for the knob, but hesitated before grabbing it because there were greenish-brown smears similar to those on the towel, coating the brass surface. She bent over and sniffed. It smelled herbal.

  Taking a tissue from her robe pocket, she used it to release the door without getting her hands dirty, then laughed at herself for being so fastidious when in a few minutes her whole body would be covered in mud. She eased open the door and called out, “It’s now or never if you don’t want me to come in!”

  Skye counted to ten, then swung the door wide, but didn’t cross the threshold. The room was a twelve by twelve tiled room with a mud vat on either side of the doorway. The music was even louder in here and Skye spotted a hot pink portable CD player on a shelf next to various bottles, bath brushes, and silvery towels. The song sounded familiar, and Skye caught herself humming, but she couldn’t quite come up with the words.

  At first the room appeared empty, but then she noticed a pink and black silk kimono hanging from a hook near the door, and on the floor underneath matching satin slippers lay on their sides. Skye stepped back, ready to close the door, when something stopped her. Where was the robe’s owner? Surely, no one would leave such an expensive garment and walk away nude.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she walked over to the vat on the right. It was about thigh high and there were steps to help get in and out. The contents radiated heat, and smelled soothing.

  As Skye crossed over to the other side of the room, she turned off the CD player. The loud music grated on her nerves and seemed somehow wrong under the circumstances. Nearing the other bath, she noticed evidence that this one had already been used. There were greenish brown smears on the rim of the vat and on the steps. The odor seemed different, too. Skye leaned closer to sniff. Yech. Along with the smell of herbs, there was a stench of fresh feces.

  Skye gagged and moved back, but not before she spotted the outline of a hand just beneath the mud’s surface. Had the Miracle Mud been transformed from the Fountain of Youth to the Cauldron of Death?

  CHAPTER 7

  Whole New Ball of Wax

  Wait a minute. Skye stopped in midstep and turned back. Maybe whoever was in the mud bath wasn’t dead. Suddenly the training she’d received when she was hired as a consultant to the Scumble River Police Department kicked in. Her primary concern was the victim’s welfare, which meant getting the person out of the mud bath and clearing the nose and mouth so Skye could do CPR.

  Skye shrugged out of her robe—thankful she had ignored the instructions to wear nothing under it—and climbed up the steps. Plunging her arms into the mud, she felt around until she found the victim’s shoulders, then worked her hands underneath the arms and clasped them over the upper chest.

  With a mighty heave, Skye tugged the person into a sitting position. Once free of the sludge, it was clear the victim was female, but Skye couldn’t identify her since the mud obscured her features.

  Grunting with effort, Skye tried to move the woman over the edge of the vat, but for every inch she pulled, the mud sucked the victim back two. As Skye took a deep breath, trying to figure out another way to get the person completely out of the tub, she heard a scream behind her. Her head shot around like a snapped rubber band, and she saw Kipp Gardner, the spa’s hairstylist, in the doorway.

  “Kipp, thank God. Help me get her out of the tub,” Skye ordered, but the hairstylist kept screaming.

  “Kipp. Pull yourself together.” Skye felt like screaming herself. “This could be a matter of life or death.”

  He shook his head and sank to the ground, his screams turning into whimpers.

  Giving up on his help, Skye’s thoughts raced. What to do? She propped the woman against the back of the bath and draped her arms over the side, hoping this would keep her above mud level. Once Skye released her, she felt for a pulse in the woman’s throat and her wrist. Nothing.

  As she leaned forward to check for breathing, she heard a familiar accented voice, then a slap, and finally Kipp stopped sniveling. Ustelle stepped past the hairdresser, now kneeling silently in the doorway, and asked, stone-faced, “What’s wrong with Ms. Gates?”

  “This is Esmé?”

  “Ya. I think so. I put her in the bath half an hour ago.”

  “Help me get her out,” Skye commanded. “I found her under the mud.”

  Ustelle hurried forward and between her and Skye they lifted Esmé out and onto the floor. Skye checked again for a pulse or breathing, and found none.

  “When you put her into the bath, did you get mud on your hands?” Skye asked Ustelle.

  “No.” Ustelle bit her lip. “She said she didn’t need any help, she’d get in after I closed the door.”

  “Did you stay in the next room for any length of time or leave right away? How long have you been gone?”

  “I left as soon as Ms. Gates was settled.” Ustelle looked stricken. “The baths are a half hour, and I knew you’d be coming at nine thirty. I needed to make a quick call, and I didn’t want to be late for you again.”

  “Are you supposed to stay while the guests are in the bath?” Skye asked.

  “Yes,” Ustelle whispered. “Please don’t tell Ms. Margot or the doctor.”

  “I won’t tell them directly.” Skye grimaced. “But you will need to tell the police, so Margot and the doctor will probably find out.”

  “The police!” Ustelle squealed.

  “Yes, and right now.” Skye was sorry she had started asking the masseuse questions. She should have left that until later, but she had wanted to make sure of her theory before she said anything, and Ustelle’s absence had made her deduction more viable. “Go to the reception desk in the lobby. Call 911. Tell them someone’s dead, probably murdered, and we need the police.” Skye paused, thinking. “Oh, and don’t touch anything here or on your way to the lobby. Take Kipp with you, and stay there. I need to secure the scene.”

  As soon as the masseuse and the hairstylist left, Skye took off the towel she had wrapped around her hair, intending to use it to cover poor Esmé, but stopped when she realized it was important not to contaminate the victim with transference. Instead she used the towel to wipe the worst of the mud from her arms and upper body, before putting on her robe and stepping out of the room.

  She stationed herself in front of the stairway, determined not to let anyone else taint the scene. Unfortunately, news of the death traveled faster than the police, and Skye had to turn away several staff and guests who felt entitled to see the body.

  Dr. Burnett was among the first to arrive. He was doing a type of run-walk the principals at Skye’s schools had perfected. It was meant to convey the message, that, yes, there is an emergency, but it’s being handled and everyone else should go back to work.

  Skye crossed her arms and maintained her position. As soon as he w
as in earshot she asked, “Have the police been called?”

  “Yes, Ustelle phoned them before informing me. You shouldn’t have told her to do that. You should have sent for me. After all, I am a doctor.”

  Skye noticed the medical bag in his hand and shook her head. “Listen, I know Esmé was your friend and I’m sorry, but she’s dead. No doctor can help her now.”

  “How can you be sure?” Dr. Burnett challenged. “You need to let me examine her.”

  Self-doubt nudged Skye. Could Esmé still be alive? Could Skye have missed a faint pulse? While she second-guessed herself, Trixie and May arrived, and Skye made a split-second decision.

  But before she acted on it, she made a general announcement. “It looks like Esmé has been murdered. The police are on the way. Trixie, go to the lobby and make sure the police are coming. When they get here, bring them to this stairway.”

  Trixie opened her mouth, then perhaps reading Skye’s “don’t mess with me” expression closed it, and trotted off.

  “Mom, your job is to keep everyone from going past this point until the police arrive.”

  May nodded, stepped next to Skye, and asked, “Where will you be?”

  “I’ll be escorting Dr. Burnett to the victim so he can examine her, in case I’m wrong about her being dead.”

  May nodded again, and took up a feet-apart, hands-on-hips stance at the top of the stairway.

  Skye dipped her head at the doctor. “Do you have gloves in that bag?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Put on a pair and follow me.” Skye put her own hands in the robe’s pockets and led the way back to where she’d left Esmé.

  Skye moved at a fast pace, but the doctor’s long legs allowed him to keep up with her. They were both silent. At the door to the mud bath treatment room, she paused. She had the weirdest feeling that she would walk through the door and find Esmé gone. Skye shook her head and focused. Evidently, she’d been reading too many mysteries; maybe it was time to switch to romances or science fiction.

  Stepping across the threshold, she wasn’t sure what she felt: relief she wasn’t cracking up, or disappointment someone was actually dead. Ignoring both emotions, she pointed at the body. “She was submerged under the mud. Ustelle and I lifted her out of the tub and laid her on the ground. I checked for a pulse and breathing.”

  Dr. Burnett knelt next to Esmé, and wiped her face off with a towel before Skye could object. Now that the mud was gone, Skye could see that Esmé’s expression was one of puzzlement.

  Using a stethoscope, Dr. Burnett listened for a heartbeat, then raised her eyelids with a gloved thumb.

  Skye always wondered why doctors did that. Someday she’d need to ask.

  He stood in one smooth movement with no hesitation or creaking, an impressive display for a man who had to be in his sixties, maybe older.

  Skye asked, “So?”

  “She’s dead.” He busied himself brushing off his khaki pants and straightening his powder blue cashmere sweater, not meeting Skye’s eyes.

  “Then let’s get back and wait for the police.” Skye didn’t bother demanding that the doctor admit she had been right. Asking that of him would have been like asking an oyster to open itself and hand over its pearl without a struggle.

  As they retraced their steps, Dr. Burnett blurted out, “When I heard Ustelle on the phone with the police dispatcher, at first I thought the victim was Margot.”

  “Why?”

  “I know you all think the problems we’ve been having remodeling and starting up are due to someone looking for the hidden jewels, but what if it’s someone trying to stop us from opening, trying to put the spa out of business? If that’s the case, then Margot would have been a logical target.” He gripped Skye’s arm. “That’s why I had to see the body.”

  “I understand.” Skye knew this was as close to an apology as she would get.

  “Esmé was a shallow, vain woman, but she didn’t deserve to die that way,” Dr. Burnett murmured almost to himself.

  Skye was surprised by his comment. She would have thought most of the women who came to the spa would be shallow and vain. But the last part of his statement was even more interesting. “What do you mean by ‘die that way’? Do you know what caused her death?”

  “No.” He looked startled. “I suppose I don’t. Though I didn’t see any injury or trauma when I examined her so I assume she drowned in the mud.” He paused. “However, my examination was superficial; I was only looking for signs of life. I could easily have missed something subtle.”

  When they reached the top of the stairway, Skye wasn’t surprised to see that a crowd had gathered. Loretta had joined May in keeping anyone from slipping by. The two worked well together, even under these appalling circumstances.

  Most of the throng was milling in the hall, but Margot was nose-to-nose with May, trying to argue her way past the older woman. “I own this spa. I can go anywhere I damn well please.”

  “No.” May’s short, calm answer belied the look in her eye. Skye knew that Margot was extremely close to pushing May into an explosion.

  “Darling.” Margot caught sight of Dr. Burnett as he emerged from the stairwell and threw herself into his arms. “I’ve been so worried. What happened?”

  The doctor opened his mouth, but Skye jumped in with, “It appears Esmé is dead. Other than that, it’s best not to discuss the details until the police have a chance to talk to everyone individually.”

  Skye spied Frannie and Bunny in the pack and edged her way over to them. She grabbed an arm of each and whispered in their ears, “Try to herd this group into the lobby and keep them from talking. Circulate and listen to what the ones who won’t shut up are saying.”

  Bunny nodded, and turned to go, then came back and asked, “She was in that Miracle Mud, right?” Today the redhead was dressed in tangerine, skintight French terry jogging pants that rode low on her hips, and a matching crop tank. A gold ring was fastened to her navel.

  Skye nodded, wondering when fifty-something Bunny had had her belly button pierced.

  “So, when you got her out, did she look younger?” Bunny’s brown eyes were hopeful as she absently smoothed the wrinkles at their corners with her index finger.

  “No.” Skye closed her eyes and shook her head. “She just looked dead.”

  Skye was never so happy to hear anyone’s voice as she was to hear Wally’s. Bunny and Frannie had managed to move most of the crowd to the lobby, but Skye, May, and Loretta had stuck around to watch the stragglers and make sure no one slipped back and tried to get a peek at the body. It had been a long twenty minutes.

  Wally was talking to a woman dressed in a tailored navy pantsuit with an unfamiliar-looking badge clipped to the breast pocket. Her dark brown hair was tightly drawn back and fastened at the nape of her neck, and black rimmed glasses both magnified and blurred her hazel eyes. When she laughed at something Wally said, giving his arm a little pat, Skye noticed her nails were long and painted a pale pink, which didn’t go with the rest of her appearance.

  As soon as Wally saw Skye, he hurried toward her, leaving the woman with her hand hanging in midair and her mouth open. Catching Skye’s eye a second before Wally took her hand and pulled her around a corner, the woman shot her a look so full of jealousy and resentment that it stole Skye’s breath away.

  Once they were out of the crowd’s sight Wally enveloped Skye in a hug. “Sweetheart.” He cupped her face, his strong hands cradling her cheeks and his concerned brown eyes locked on to hers. “Are you all right?”

  Wally had turned forty the previous winter, but the silver in his black hair, and the lines around his eyes made him more handsome, not less. He radiated a strength that drew Skye like sugar water did a hummingbird.

  “I’m fine.” Skye intended to give him a quick kiss, but it threatened to linger, and she reluctantly pulled herself out of his arms. She still wasn’t used to how demonstrative Wally was compared to Simon, but she found that she liked it. Gather
ing her thoughts she asked, “Where are the paramedics?”

  “They’re not coming.” A line formed between Wally’s eyebrows. “We were told the victim was dead. Isn’t she?”

  “Yes. In fact, Dr. Burnett, one of the spa owners, confirmed it.”

  “Then no EMTs.” Wally gave her hand a little squeeze. “Tell me why you think she was murdered.”

  Skye explained about the attendant not entering the mud bath room and not staying at her post in the waiting room. She also told him about the greenish-brown stains on the doorknob, towel, and rim of the tub, concluding with, “So, it seemed to me that if Esmé got in the tub herself, she wouldn’t have smeared the mud all over. But if someone held her under, her thrashing would explain the mud around the tub and on the steps, as well as on the murderer. He or she must have walked into the waiting room, closed the treatment room door once he was out, and then grabbed a towel to clean up.

  “Heck, the killer could even have bathed; the shower’s right there. Someone walking around in a wet swimsuit or spa robe wouldn’t arouse any suspicion.”

  “Sounds logical to me.” Wally had released her hand to take notes. “Where’s this mud room?”

  Skye stepped back into the main corridor and pointed. “It’s down those stairs, and at the end of the hall.” For the first time since she had found Esmé’s body, Skye felt safe, and she was reluctant to lose that sensation by letting Wally out of her sight. “Shall I show you?”

  “I’ll find it. It would be better if you stay here and talk to Special Agent Vail.”

  “Special Agent?” Skye had never heard that title before.

  “Yeah. She’s from the state police. Considering our circumstances, I called them to borrow their crime scene specialists, rather than the county’s unit.”

  Skye nodded, knowing Wally was referring to the fact that the county sheriff was under investigation—an investigation in which Skye had played an integral part in instigating.

  “So, about ten minutes after I called for the forensic unit, Special Agent Vail shows up at the police department. Seems she was visiting relatives in town, and her boss asked her to come by and see if I needed assistance.”