Not a Monster of a Chance

  Not a Monster of a Chance

  A Scumble River Mystery

  by

  Denise Swanson

  THIS STORY TAKES PLACE BETWEEN BOOK TWO, MURDER OF A SWEET OLD LADY, AND BOOK THREE, MURDER OF A SLEEPING BEAUTY

  Scumble River, Illinois, located seventy-five miles south of Chicago in distance, and at least seventy-five years behind the city in attitude, had one claim to fame—a beautiful recreation club. It featured a sandy beach, shady picnic spots, and sparkling lakes for fishing and water skiing. This particular summer the Scumble River Recreation Club seemed to have an additional feature.

  "A monster," Skye Denison snorted, as she climbed the metal steps of the lifeguard's chair and scanned the water. All clear. Seven-thirty was too early for any swimmers. "Like the Loch Ness?” She shook her head. “Whoever claimed to have seen Nessie out here was probably drunk."

  Officer Quirk took off his hat, and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. The dark blue uniform had not been designed to wear standing in the sun on hot sand. "Could be, but the chief told me to inform the lifeguards, and ask them to keep an eye out. And since you're a shrink and all, I thought it might be best if you talked to the others. So they don't panic or nothing."

  Ordinarily, Skye was employed by the Scumble River School District as their school psychologist. But since she had the summer off, and needed the money, she was moonlighting as a lifeguard at the recreational club.

  "What exactly happened?" She tucked a stray chestnut curl into her French braid.

  "Some high school kids were messing around last night after the beach closed. On a dare, one of the boys swam past the rope, meaning to swim all the way across the lake. He was about three-quarters there when he spots something. The kid claims it was a spiked fin as long as a pickup truck."

  "What did he do?" Skye's mind flashed to a picture of a teenager being chased by a submerged Chevy Tahoe and she fought the giggle that was trying to bubble to the surface.

  "Raced back to shore. He says the thing followed him to the rope, and then turned back into the deeper part of the lake."

  "Probably a big old catfish or something. Liquor tends to magnify things in our perceptions. What are you doing about it?"

  The officer settled his hat back onto his crew cut. "Just notifying the lifeguards for now."

  "You don't think we should close the beach and the lakes?" Skye narrowed her emerald-green eyes. The chief of police, Wally Boyd, was furious with her because of her actions while investigating her grandmother's recent death. She wondered if this was a hoax he had dreamed up, hoping she'd make a big fuss about the incident and look stupid.

  "Hell, no!" A voice bellowed from behind them. "We let people think we actually believe this crap, and all those Chicago folks will be dropping out of the club faster than you can say, I want my money back."

  Charlie Patukas stood under the pavilion several feet back from the water. Skye grinned. She should have known her godfather, whom she called Uncle Charlie, would be involved. Not only did he own the only motel in town, he was on every board and committee that had any influence—including the one for the recreational club.

  "Hi, Uncle Charlie, can you come down here? I'm not supposed to the leave the beach." Skye shaded her eyes so she could see the man standing in the shadows.

  He hitched up his gray twill pants and adjusted his red suspenders. "No, I gotta get going. Just wanted to ask you to sniff around a little, and see what the truth is about this monster business." Charlie turned to go, speaking over his shoulder. "It's probably just a bunch of teenagers wanting to stir things up."

  Quirk frowned. "Charlie's probably right. But make sure no one swims past the ropes today."

  "No problem. It's against the rules anyway."

  The morning was uneventful. Skye spoke to the other two lifeguards, telling them to keep an eye out, but not to spread the rumor around.

  During her lunch break, Skye sat with her best friend Trixie Frayne. She too was moonlighting: a swimming instructor during the summer, but the high school librarian during the rest of the year. "So, did you hear about the monster?"

  Trixie stopped with her sandwich suspended midway between the table and her mouth. "What monster?"

  "The monster of Scumble River. It was spotted last night at the beach."

  "Right. What's the punchline?" Trixie took a bite.

  Skye explained what Quirk had told her.

  Trixie ran her fingers through her short cap of brown hair. "You don't think there's anything to it, do you?"

  "Just too much liquor, too many hormones, and too active an imagination."

  "You know, that's probably what they said in Loch Ness—at first." Trixie's brown eyes twinkled. "Maybe we should look into it."

  Skye shook her head. "Nope. I think that's exactly what Wally wants us to do."

  As they threw away their trash and headed back to work, Trixie said, "I have a funny feeling about this."

  The beach filled up as the afternoon progressed. Skye and the other lifeguards were busy keeping everyone where they were supposed to be—the little kids seemed to want to go off the high dive, and the teens wanted to congregate in the kiddy area.

  At three, Skye blew her whistle for a break. Everyone reluctantly headed toward shore. Everyone, except a woman doing laps out by the rope. She wore a bright pink swim cap covered with rubber flowers. Skye knew from experience that it was almost impossible to hear anything with that type of headgear, but she blew her whistle again anyway. The swimmer still showed no sign of having heard the signal.

  The other lifeguards had already left the beach for their own break. Skye swore under her breath and waded into the water. When she reached the ropes, she popped her head up and scanned the area. Great. The woman must have realized the break had been called, and swam back to shore.

  Skye took one more glance around, and was about to head back, when she saw the swimmer. The woman was halfway between the ropes and the opposite shore. What to do? Shouting was useless, and Skye herself was not supposed to swim past the ropes, unless it was an emergency. She decided that the best course of action was to radio for someone to pick up the lone swimmer on the other side.

  As Skye started toward the beach, she heard a scream.

  "Help! Oh, my God! Help me!"

  Skye splashed to a stop and frantically scanned the lake for the swimmer. The woman was flailing in the water. Skye immediately headed in her direction, keeping her eye on the woman as she swam.

  Just before she reached her, the woman went down as if she had been sucked into a giant straw.

  Skye redoubled her efforts, and arrived at the spot less than a minute later. She took a deep breath and dived. She stayed under as long as she could, but there was no sign of the woman. She dived again and again.

  Apparently, no one noticed the activity, because no one came to help. Finally, too tired to make it back to the beach area, Skye dragged herself to the opposite shore and collapsed on the sand. She had seen a woman drown and been unable to save her. She felt hollow inside.

  When she got her breath, Skye started the long walk back around the lake. She briefly considered swimming across, a much shorter distance, but after what she had seen, decided against it. As she trudged down the dirt road, she noticed a pickup inching its way in her direction.

  The truck stopped as it neared her, and the window was rolled down. It was her cousin Ginger's husband, Flip. "Hey. What you doing?"

  Skye explained as she was climbing into the cab. "Hurry and turn around. We've got to report this, and get a search team out there."

  He reached into his jeans pocket and handed her a leather case.

  "What are you doing with a cell phone?"
>
  He shook his head, a sneer on his broad, flat face. "Everyone's got a cell phone. Even small-minded, stupid people like the folks in Scumble River."

  She sighed. Although she had been back in her hometown for eleven months, the twelve years she had been gone was a big gulf to cross. Especially since right before she left, she’d told off the whole town in her valedictorian speech. Most of the community was still reminding her of her youthful transgression.

  Skye dialed the police. Unfortunately, her mother, May, was the afternoon police dispatcher. After a lengthy reassurance that Skye was fine, May finally took the report. Skye's next call was even worse. It was to Charlie.

  Flip had continued around the lake and pulled into the beach area only a couple of minutes before the police car, boat truck, and ambulance arrived. Charlie's white Cadillac was close behind.

  Despite Charlie's objections, the police closed the beach. Although they dragged the lake for the rest of the day, there was no sign of the woman, the creature, or anything unusual. No one knew who the swimmer had been. Skye had only gotten a brief look from a long distance. Her description of the woman was vague, at best. The gaudy bathing cap had drawn most of her attention.

  While the fire and rescue squads worked, Charlie muttered about lost membership, and worried what would happen if the Chicago people pulled their money out of the club. Skye sat next to him under the pavilion, and tried to soothe him by pointing out the five-page waiting list they had of people wanting to join.

  The police chief called a neighboring county for divers, but they wouldn't be available for several days. It had been a rough week for swimmers in Illinois.

  Charlie left at five to make some calls, but Skye remained at the club until the police packed it in for the night. Wally had told her more than once that she should go home, but she felt somehow responsible, and refused his escalating commands.

  After her last adventure, she was again without a car. One of her many relatives had lent her a scooter to get back and forth from the beach. She hadn't planned to be driving it in the dark, and was still trying to figure out how to turn on the light after the police left.

  As her fingers flipped the different switches, she heard a sound from the beach. Great. It was probably kids who had heard what happened, and were now daring each other to brave the water and face the monster.

  She knew the police didn't have enough manpower to post a twenty-four hour guard—two officers were sick and one was away on vacation. That only left Chief Boyd, Officer Quirk, and a part-timer to cover three shifts, seven days a week.

  Reluctantly, Skye got off the scooter and walked toward the sound. At the top of the stairs leading down to the sand, she stopped and drew back. Sitting on the beach was a man dressed in work clothes.

  The only illumination was the moon and whatever spilled over from the lights in the parking lot, but he appeared to be upset. Skye hesitated. Good sense told her that she should hop on her scooter and go home. However, her training as a psychologist made it difficult for her to leave someone in such obvious distress.

  She opted for a compromise and cleared her throat, while remaining at the top of the steps. It took a couple of tries, but the man's head finally turned in her direction.

  "Ah, hi, is there anything I can help you with?" Skye thought she sounded more like a grocery clerk than a psychologist.

  "No, go away," The man turned back to staring at the water.

  "Sure. Ah, but I need to tell you one thing." She persisted

  "Don't you hear so good? Get the f—" His back was rigid and his hands were fisted by his sides.

  Skye swallowed her fear and interrupted him, "This afternoon someone drowned here under mysterious circumstances, so don't go in the water."

  She turned to leave, but the man swiftly rose and called, "Wait a minute."

  As he drew nearer, Skye got a better look at him. He was a medium-sized man with muscles that were just starting to soften with age. His face was acne-scarred, and the scraggly mustache obscured the expression on his lips.

  He spoke from the bottom of the stairs. "What do you know about what happened this afternoon?"

  Skye backed up a little. "Why do you ask?"

  "Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you." The man ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. "Please tell me what you know."

  "Only if you stay down there."

  "Deal. By the way, my name's Mark Petty."

  "I'm Skye Denison, head lifeguard." Skye told him about the so-called monster, the woman, and what had happened. She concluded with, "So, the police are trying to figure out who the woman was, and what happened to her."

  The man sank down on the bottom stair. "I think it was my wife, Karleen."

  "Oh, my. I'm so sorry." Skye sat on the top step. "Why do you think it was her?"

  "I usually work the seven-to-three shift at the quarry, but today I was forced to do a double. I tried calling to tell Karleen, but I kept getting the machine. When I got home, a couple of hours ago, I found a note she had left me saying she was going swimming at the club and that she'd be back by three. But she wasn't there."

  Skye scooted about halfway down the stairs. "You must have been worried."

  "Yep, it isn't like her not to be where she says she'll be."

  "I see. So what did you do?"

  "I called everyone I could think of. No one had seen her all day. Finally, I went to the police station, but the only one there was the dispatcher. She wouldn't tell me nothing. Just said I should come out here to talk to the chief. But I must've missed him."

  "He left about twenty minutes ago." Skye stood up. "You should probably go back to the station."

  "Yeah." He got to his feet and started up the stairs.

  When he reached the top, Skye could finally get a good look at his face. He appeared numb. "Could I ask you a question?"

  He shrugged. "Sure. I guess."

  "Do you have any idea why Karleen would swim past the ropes?"

  "Well, she wasn't one to follow the rules." They continued to the parking lot. "She said only old people did that."

  The man got into an ancient gray pickup and pulled away. Skye finally found the light switch on the scooter and followed him. She watched him pull into the police station, then turned and drove home.

  Her cat, Bingo, met her at the door, demanding his supper. By the time she fed him, showered, and put on her nightgown, it was nearly ten. Too late to call anyone and ask if they knew anything about Mark and Karleen Petty.

  She fell asleep, stroking Bingo's shiny black fur and listening to his deep-throated purr.

  When her alarm rang at six-thirty the next morning, Skye wondered if she should report for work or not. Would the beach remain closed? She was reaching for the phone to call Charlie and ask when it rang.

  She snatched up the receiver.

  "Skye, I need you down to the club right now." Charlie's voice boomed in her ear.

  "Oh, are we opening the beach back up?"

  "No, but the news people got a hold of the story, and are swarming by the gate. I'm going to give a statement at eight, and the board decided you should be there to answer questions, since you're the only witness."

  "Are you sure that's a good idea? Maybe we should stick with no comment."

  "Hell, I don't know. I'll pick you up in twenty minutes. Just look pretty, and don't mention the monster."

  Skye looked down at the green tank suit she had slipped on. About six months before her return to Scumble River, she had quit dieting. She had decided to eat healthy, and get a reasonable amount of exercise, and allow her body to reach its natural set point, which meant she had gained weight. Most of the time she was comfortable with her more generous curves, but no way was she being photographed for newspaper and TV in a swimsuit.

  She changed to a pair of khaki slacks and a black polo top. It was too late to subdue her curls with hot rollers, so she scrunched them with some mousse, and pushed the whole mass back with a faux tortoise-shell hea
dband. Slipping her feet into sandals, she thought, I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

  Charlie was waiting when she walked out of her cottage. An unlit cigar was clamped between his teeth, and he barely responded when she kissed him on the cheek.

  They drove in silence to the club's gates. Several vans and cars blocked the entrance. People carrying cameras and microphones were shoulder-to-shoulder with those dressed in suits. The sun beat down relentlessly. The temperature was already eighty-seven, with matching humidity.

  Charlie parked the Caddy on the side of the road. The car was immediately swamped by reporters shouting questions.

  Wally materialized in the midst of the swarm, and escorted Charlie and Skye through the melee and to the front of the gates. The chief handed Charlie a bullhorn. The crowd quieted down.

  Charlie summed up the events and handed the bullhorn to Skye.

  Before she could speak, the reporters starting yelling questions. "Is it true you saw a dinosaur eat the victim right in front of your eyes?"

  Skye opened her mouth, but another newsperson shouted, "Is it true you wrestled the monster trying to save the victim, and have marks on your body where you were bitten?" She was sorely tempted to drop her pants, and flash them her unblemished bottom.

  Several more questions in that same vein were screamed at Skye in an endless stream, with no break allowing her to answer. Finally, she broke in, and said, "I saw a swimmer in distress and swam toward her. Unfortunately, she sank before I reached her, and due to the muddy conditions of the lake, I was unable to spot her below the water's surface. I saw nothing else while I was out attempting the rescue."

  Wally took the bullhorn back and said, "We've sent for divers. When they arrive here in a few days, I'm sure all our questions will be answered. This drowning is unfortunate, but not unusual. We generally have one or two drownings a season."