It was the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving, and she had been dreaming she was the holiday turkey. A dream brought on, no doubt, by the butterlike substance slathered over every inch of her skin, the seaweed wrapped around her, and the tinfoil covering her from neck to toes.

Of course, being stretched out on a steel table with an overhead heating element, baking her at what felt like 350°, might have added to the illusion. That, along with the timer that had just popped out, might give anyone fowl dreams.

“Ahhhhh!” Another scream surged through the louvered doors of the spa treatment room.

This one cleared the confusion from Skye’s mind and brought her fully awake. She shot upright … or at least she tried to. But rather than sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the table as she intended, she found she couldn’t fold in the middle. Instead, she slipped and rolled onto the floor, where she landed like a turtle stuck in the mud.

In her dream, Skye, AKA Thanksgiving dinner, had been struggling to avoid her mother, who was wielding a giant meat
fork and carving knife. Remnants of that nightmare surfaced when Skye realized her arms were bound to her sides and her legs pressed together by layer upon layer of Reynolds Wrap. She was completely immobilized.

Her heart pounding and her breath coming in gulps, Skye fought a rising sense of panic. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on thinking tranquil thoughts, and once she had calmed down, she discovered she could move by rolling.

Skye had just made it to the door, and had almost convinced herself that the shrieks she had heard were part of her dream, when there was another scream, this one even louder than the first two.

Shit! Why had she ever agreed to a seaweed wrap? Heck, why had she agreed to spend her holiday weekend at Scumble River’s new spa? She wasn’t a spa kind of girl. Getting naked and letting perfect strangers tell her what was wrong with her body had never appealed to Skye.

Granted, the massage had been lovely, and apparently so relaxing that she fell asleep, but where was the masseuse? Or, for that matter, anyone else? What kind of spa was this? What kind of place would wrap you up so that you were helpless, then just leave you lying around like Thanksgiving leftovers? In what kind of place did screams go unchecked? Her thoughts raced as she tried to figure out how to hoist herself upright and open the door.

Finally, Skye came up with a way to use the knob like a hook to haul herself to her feet. Once erect, she used her fingernails to tear a small hole in the foil covering her hand. Using the three fingers she had been able to poke through the slit, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

She had just made it into the hallway when another scream echoed off the marble floors. This one sounded worse than the previous ones. Was she already too late to help?

Hopping was the only form of locomotion Skye could manage with her legs bound together, and she had to go slowly since she couldn’t risk falling and not being able
to get up again. Soon she developed a rhythm of hopping, opening each door she came to in the hall, and looking inside.

The last scream had sounded close by, and as Skye approached the fourth door down, another shriek blasted through. Skye grabbed the knob, turned it, and flung herself into the room.

She had prepared herself for the worst, but even so, Skye came to an abrupt halt when she saw what was happening. Swaying, she fought to stay upright as a wave of hysteria threatened to overtake her. She stared at her best friend and school librarian, Trixie Frayne, lying spread eagle with a young woman seated between her thighs ripping out strips of wax covered in pubic hair.

Skye sank to the floor, her shoulders shaking, tears of laughter running down her cheeks. She had just rushed through the halls like a foil-covered tortilla in order to save her friend from the horrible, the feared, the deadly … Brazilian bikini wax.

“Oh, Miss, I am so sorry. Are you injured? Do you need the doctor?”

“No, Ustelle.” Skye looked up at the masseuse, who had appeared in time to see her collapse. One last hysterical giggle escaped her lips as she reassured the worried young woman, “I’m fine. Really. Just laughing at my overactive imagination.”

“How did you get in here, Miss?” Ustelle grasped Skye’s shoulders and raised her to her feet with one effortless motion—an impressive demonstration of the woman’s strength, since Skye was far from a lightweight.

“I’ll explain later.” Skye started hopping toward the door. “Just get this stuff off me.”

“Yes, Miss.” Ustelle looked back over her shoulder and fixed her younger coworker with a stern gaze. “Amber, I would be most unhappy if this incident was talked about.”

Amber gave the masseuse a calculating glance. “What’s it worth to you?”

Ustelle’s mouth flattened as she snapped, “We’ll discuss it later.”

“Whatever.” Amber shrugged.

Ustelle’s face was red when she turned back to Skye, but she calmly guided her down the hallway and into her own treatment room. As she peeled the Reynolds Wrap from Skye, she apologized again. “I am so sorry for having left you so long. I had to make a personal call, and I did not think it would take as much time as it did.”

“Sure.” Once freed of the foil, Skye stepped into the corner shower. “I understand.”

“Please do not tell Dr. Burnett or Miss Margot.” Ustelle handed Skye a loofah. “If I lose this job, I shall be forced to return to Sweden.”

“I won’t tell them,” Skye promised, wondering if the spa owners were really so unforgiving that they would fire an employee for so minor an infraction.

“Thank you. Anything you require for the remainder of your stay, I shall take care of it for you.” Ustelle’s long blond braid bobbed as she spoke and her blue eyes shone with earnestness.

“Really. It’s nothing. Don’t worry.” Skye dried herself with the giant towel the masseuse handed her, turbaned a smaller towel around her wet hair, then slipped on the white terry robe the spa asked all its guests to wear between treatments. “I’m going to rest until dinner. We’ll just forget about this whole afternoon.”

Once Skye reached the room she was sharing with Trixie, she threw off the spa robe, which was too tight anyway. The label might say one size fits all, but clearly, the manufacturer had never met a woman above a size twelve.

Replacing the robe with the jeans and sweater she had worn upon her arrival that morning, Skye began to feel back in control. She unwound the towel from around her head and combed out her chestnut curls. When her hair lay like a wet poodle down her back, she looked at the clock. Two hours until dinner. If she wanted some quiet time to relax and decompress, she couldn’t stay in the room.
Trixie would be back soon, wanting to discuss what had just happened.

Skye grabbed a book, and set out to find a place to sit and read while her hair dried. The old Bruefeld Mansion, now the Scumble River Spa, had recently been remodeled and enlarged by the new owners. The two wings of the main house had been converted into guest accommodations, the central building into treatment rooms and common areas, and the attic into staff lodgings. The basement had been renovated to provide an area for the mud baths and a private suite of rooms had been added to the first floor in the rear as living quarters for Margot Avanti and her husband, Creighton Burnett. In addition, VIP cottages, a gym with an indoor pool, and a hair salon had been built next to the mansion.

With the vast space available, and the limited number of guests, Skye was sure she could find a quiet spot to be alone. She wanted to gather her thoughts before word spread of her performance this afternoon. Once everyone found out what a fool she had made of herself, hopping to the rescue like Crusader Rabbit, she wouldn’t find another peaceful moment for a long, long time.

During her stroll around the ground floor, Skye noted that the turret she had observed on the outside was just for decoration, although there was evidence of a recently removed circular stairway. Next, she poked her head into the dining room, now cleared of food. She briefly considered sitting in the library, but the walnut paneling, hand-carved detailing, and towering bookcases were more intimidating than relaxing.

The central courtyard, paved with cobblestones around an outdoor swimming pool, was appealing but the pool was closed for the season, and the patio furniture was stacked under plastic tarps.

Finally, like Goldilocks she found a spot that was just right. As soon as Skye entered the solarium, she felt herself relax. Sun streaming through three walls of floor-to-ceiling windows made the room toasty warm. To the left was a pleasant view of trees leading down to the river, to the right
the magnificent driveway swept from the house into the woods, and straight ahead were several acres of rolling lawn interrupted only by … what in the heck was that dark square ruining the perfect carpet of grass?

Skye frowned and moved closer to the center window. Straining her eyes, she finally figured out what she was staring at: the Bruefeld family graveyard. Come to think of it, she had heard that the new owners had wanted to move the coffins to the town cemetery, but due to some law or maybe some restriction in the deed, they hadn’t been able to, and the family burial ground remained where it had been for a hundred or so years.

She took one more look, then curled up on the floral cushions of a white wicker rocker. Opening her book, she stared at the printed pages for several minutes, sighed, and set the novel aside. Closing her eyes, she let her mind wander, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when she had been talked into spending her Thanksgiving weekend at the spa. It had all started on Halloween, when one of the spa owners had come to Skye for help …

Skye stood just outside the rear entrance of Scumble River Elementary School and watched the students parade around the perimeter of the parking lot dressed in their Halloween costumes, which ran the gamut from beautiful princesses to ghastly monsters.

As the school psychologist, Skye didn’t have much to do on a day like Halloween. She couldn’t test any students or observe in any classroom, and no one wanted to have a meeting. She’d spent the morning writing reports, but had decided to take a break from the paperwork and attend the afternoon Halloween procession.

Normally in Illinois, mothers made sure Halloween costumes were loose enough to wear over snowsuits, but this year the weather had surprised them. The sun glared down on the concrete steps and asphalt drive as if it were July. Skye huddled in the little bit of shade the overhang provided. She had dressed in khaki slacks and a short sleeve peach polo shirt, prepared for the non-air-conditioned
school, but the sweat still dripped off her face and pooled under her arms.

BOOK: Murder of a Botoxed Blonde

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