Murder of a Botoxed Blonde by Denise Swanson

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
    W ait 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