“When I watched you two making your vows, I could tell that this was a marriage that would last.” Cora’s voice cracked as she said, “I’m just glad that I was still here to see Skye find her soul mate.”
Skye had leaned down to give Cora another kiss when May ordered, “Wally, go keep Jed company in the living room.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Wally saluted and whispered to Skye, “Call me if you need me.”
“Get cracking, Skye. Food isn’t going to get out on the table by itself.” May glared at her daughter. “Don’t make me put my hands on my hips.”
Skye replicated her husband’s salute and complied with her mother’s order. Her assignment at these affairs was always the relish trays, so she automatically opened the refrigerator and started grabbing jars of gherkins and pickled beets, plastic bins of cherry tomatoes, and bags of cauliflower florets, sliced bell peppers, and cucumber rounds. Several compartmentalized crystal platters were stacked on the nearby countertop, and she filled each section with a different ingredient.
While Skye completed the trays, she saw one of her second cousins glance both ways and then pop a cookie into her mouth. Before she could swallow, May pounced on her and said, “What do you think you’re doing, eating instead of working?”
“I thought this was a come-as-you-are party.” The twentysomething woman giggled. “I came hungry.”
“Well, stop it.” May shook her finger and moved on to scrutinize the next person on her list.
Finishing up with the relishes, Skye stepped over to help Ilene Denison, who was married to Skye’s cousin Kevin. Ilene was in charge of putting Saran Wrap on the trays of chicken-salad-, tuna-salad-, and ham-salad-filled cream puffs, which were another family party staple.
Ilene glanced up and said, “So how’s Loretta enjoying parenthood?”
“Fine, I guess.” Skye felt a twinge of guilt. She’d been so busy at school the past week, she hadn’t had time to stop by or call her sister-in-law. “Why?”
“Well, with her being such a rich, fancy lawyer, I just wondered how she was handling the glamorous duties of being a mother.” Ilene arched a brow. “I mean, once you’ve applauded a bowel movement, it’s pretty much downhill from there.”
“Well, I—”
“And I need to warn her,” Ilene cut off Skye. “DVRs do not eject peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, despite what the TV commercials show.”
“I take it Kevin Junior has been giving you a hard time,” Skye guessed.
“That’s one way of putting it.” Ilene closed her eyes. “This morning he decided to invent a new form of baseball that he calls fanball. You throw a baseball into the ceiling fan. Apparently, whichever player gets it to go the farthest wins. Kevin hit a home run, and now the picture window in our living room has a huge crack.”
“Yikes.” Skye patted Ilene’s arm sympathetically. “Does insurance cover that?”
“Not with our deductible. You know what they say about the shoemaker’s son going barefoot? Same goes for the insurance agent’s family.” Ilene rolled her eyes, then said, “That reminds me. Has Wally said anything about the rash of fires we’ve been having around Scumble River?”
“Not too much,” Skye said cautiously, surprised Ilene had brought up the arsons instead of Blair’s murder. “I know Wally talked to some guy who he thought might be the pyromaniac, but I didn’t hear the results of that interrogation.”
“Well, Kevin says the insurance claims are killing his company, and his boss is super ticked off at him.” Ilene’s teeth worried her bottom lip. “Kevin said it’s starting to add up higher than the damage from the last tornado.”
“Really?” Skye tore a piece of cellophane from the cardboard cylinder and struggled to get it onto the dish without turning it into a useless ball of plastic. “How many fires have there been?”
“Let’s see. I think it was four— No, wait. I’m pretty sure it was five. I almost forgot the first one because there was a long time between it and the rest of them,” Ilene answered. “But because they’ve all been businesses, the claims are for a lot more than when it’s just a residence.”
“Why’s that?” Skye asked absently, concentrating on what she was doing.
“Not only are the buildings and contents more expensive, but the insurance company also has to pay for the owner’s lost income.”
Before Skye could comment, her mother interrupted. “Aren’t you girls done with that yet? Vince, Loretta, and Baby April just pulled into the driveway, and everyone else is already in the garage.”
Skye hid a smile, recalling when Vince and Loretta had announced their daughter’s name. Vince had joked that they chose April because it came before May. His mother had not been amused.
“Sorry, Aunt May,” Ilene said, hurrying out of the kitchen juggling several wrapped trays. Over her shoulder, she added, “I was finished with mine a long time ago, but Skye was distracting me.”
Skye gritted her teeth, finished her last platter, and after slipping her shoes back on, followed her cousin-in-law outside with the remaining plates of cream puffs. She’d have to remember to ask Wally if that guy he’d questioned had been the arsonist or not. The murder investigation had pushed the fires out of her mind.
Rushing into the garage, Skye noticed that it had been scrubbed cleaner than an operating room before surgery performed on the doctor himself. Jed’s workbench and cabinets were covered in white sheets, and the concrete floor was pristine.
Skye put her tray on the buffet table, then greeted Trixie and Owen, who were admiring Jed’s model tractor collection. The Farmall red, Caterpillar yellow, and John Deere green glowed like the lights of a traffic signal.
Owen gestured to the long narrow shelf circling three of the four walls and said, “It looks like your dad’s been busy polishing up his toys.”
Before Skye could respond, Loretta, Vince, and the baby entered the garage and were immediately surrounded by aunts and cousins fighting over who got to hold the newborn. The three of them made a striking family portrait. At six feet tall, with obsidian black hair and mahogany skin, Loretta looked like royalty from some exotic African country, a queen wearing Ferragamo patent-leather sandals and carrying a Tory Burch clutch.
Vince was a few inches taller than his dazzling wife and handsome enough to be featured on the cover of Cosmo magazine’s hot-men-of-the-year supplement. His finely carved features, perfectly styled butterscotch-blond hair, and the green Leofanti eyes made most women catch their breath and dampen their panties.
Not surprisingly, Vince and Loretta had produced a beautiful baby. April had a flawless caramel complexion, her mother’s dark ringlets, and her father’s emerald eyes surrounded by lush dark lashes. Skye heard the words precious, extraordinary, and exquisite being tossed around, and flashbulbs were going off as if the trio were modeling for the next issue of the National Enquirer.
For a moment Skye frowned. Wally was handsome, but she was at the most, pretty. No way would their baby be able to compete with his or her gorgeous cousin. Would their child feel inferior?
No! Definitely not! She shook her head. Appearance would not be how her son or daughter was judged. She would make sure of that.
While Skye had been daydreaming about her upcoming motherhood, May had entered the garage. Now she announced, “Will everyone please take their seats? The food is set up buffet style, and as the guests of honor, Loretta and Vince will be first. Grandma Denison will be next; then please go up according to your table number.”
Skye had been assigned to pour the iced tea, milk, and coffee, so she was one of the last to fill her plate. By the time everyone had been served and Skye took her place next to Wally, she was starving. She’d been so engrossed in examining Blair’s Open Book folio that she’d forgotten to eat lunch, and her breakfast cereal had been seven hours ago.
“You look a little pale.” Wally wri
nkled his brow. “Are you okay?”
“Just really hungry.” Skye patted her stomach. “I keep forgetting I can’t skip meals anymore without getting a little dizzy.”
“I’ll be glad when everyone knows you’re pregnant,” Wally whispered. “Then your mom will make sure that you’re the first to eat.”
“She’ll make sure of a lot of things.” Skye’s smile was rueful.
“True.” Wally popped a chunk of cheese into Skye’s mouth. “But we’ll cope.”
“Right.” Skye chewed and swallowed. “But my mother can be hard to deal with.”
“Not for me.” Wally fed her a bite of chicken-salad-stuffed cream puff. “I don’t feel the need to please her like you do. And if she gets ticked off, too bad.”
“Uh-huh,” Skye murmured noncommittally. Wally would just have to experience the wrath of May for himself. As she polished off the food on her plate, she frowned. What was it she wanted to ask Wally? She couldn’t recall. Hmm. Maybe a slice of cake—or two—would jog her memory.
CHAPTER 24
KISS—Keep It Simple, Stupid
Sunday afternoon, Skye hummed The Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Daydream” as she got into her car. Earlier, when she and Wally had come home from church, it had still been overcast, but now the weather was ideal—seventy-eight degrees, with low humidity and lots of sunshine. Father Burns had been right: Worry looks around. Sorry looks back. But faith looks up. He’d told them to trust God, and it was now a picture-perfect day for a gathering in the park and the rubber duck race.
Wally had gone into the police department right after Mass. He and Martinez hadn’t had any luck locating Blair’s password, and he wanted to inspect her possessions one more time before giving up and turning her cell phone over to the county crime techs on Monday. He’d reminded Skye that he’d be on duty for the festivities, but if he didn’t see her there, he’d meet her later in the day at her folks’ house to make their big baby announcement to the family.
It was quarter to three when Skye pulled her Bel Air into a slot near the Dumpster at the Up A Lazy River Motor Court. She cut diagonally across the asphalt to the southwest tip of Charlie’s property and took the wooden footbridge over to the park.
Once the city council sanctioned food and beverage sales, Trixie’s rubber duck race had morphed into an all-out event unofficially dubbed Party in the Park. The vendors’ tents were set up shoulder to shoulder along the river’s edge, and the area was swarming with people. Once again she marveled that Trixie had been able to arrange this affair so quickly.
Although the rubber duck race wasn’t until four, there was plenty for people to do all afternoon. The odor from the Lions Club’s pony ride added a tang to the air. And children’s laughter rang out from the 4-H club’s kiddy tractor pull, where boys and girls ages five through eleven were competing on pedal tractors.
Another crowd pleaser was the St. Francis bingo pavilion. The church was selling homemade desserts to folks while they played games like picture frame and postage stamp for cash prizes. As Skye walked by, she saw her mother bent intently over her card with her dauber at the ready and a look of fierce concentration emblazoned on her face.
Having promised to take the last shift selling rubber ducks for the race, Skye waved at her mom and continued to walk. She greeted family and friends almost continuously as she made her way down the length of the park peninsula toward the tip where Trixie had said the booth would be located.
It seemed that almost everyone in Scumble River was at the impromptu festival, and she hoped that meant lots of cash for the no-kill animal shelter.
The hand on Skye’s watch had just ticked to the number three when she reached the boat docks. She could see Trixie sitting on a lawn chair behind a card table. A sign next to her, festooned with pictures of adorable animals available for adoption, read:
ALL PROCEEDS GO TO SAVE THE KITTIES AND PUPPIES!
ONE DUCK—$10
TWO DUCKS—$15
SIX DUCK QUACK PACK—$40
TWELVE DUCK FLOCK—$75
An impressive list of prizes donated by local stores and businesses was posted underneath.
Waving to Trixie, she climbed down the roughly hewn stairs cut into the soil. The rocky shore was hard to walk on in sandals, and she wished she’d worn her Keds instead of her flip-flops.
When she reached Trixie, she gestured to people in line to buy ducks and said, “Looks like business is good.”
“At this rate we’ll be able to finance the shelter for a whole year!” Trixie bounced in her seat. “All the groups participating in Party in the Park are donating five percent of their profits.” She pressed her lips together. “Except Earl Doozier. He claims that he already did his part when he got the permit. I sure wish I knew how he did that.”
“No, you don’t.” Skye shook her head. “Where is the Doozier clan set up?”
“He claimed the prime spot next to the picnic tables.”
“Crap!” Skye cringed. She didn’t like the idea of the Dooziers right in the thick of things. She’d hoped that Trixie would have assigned him a place more on the fringes of the crowd. “Do you really need me here? I should probably check on Earl.”
“Actually, I don’t. We’re nearly sold out.” Trixie frowned. “I wish I had had you order more ducks, but I was afraid we’d be stuck with cases and cases of the little beasties and nowhere to store them.”
“So I can go?” Skye edged backward, glad she’d never revealed her little computer error to Trixie. Her BFF would have teased her until the end of time.
“Sure.” Trixie accepted a ten-dollar bill from a little old lady and allowed her to choose from the few remaining numbers. “Go make sure the Dooziers aren’t blowing up anything.”
“More likely, Earl is fleecing some unsuspecting tourist,” Skye muttered as she hurried away.
The Dooziers were her friends, but it was always good to know what they were up to in case she needed to step in and rescue someone. Often their scams resulted in bruises or trips to the ER. Although, more often than not, it was the gullible folks from out of town who visited the hospital rather than the Dooziers.
At the entrance to Earl’s game, a flattened carton box read:
CORNHOLE TURNAMINT
GAURANTEED FUN! FUN! FUN!
ENTREE FEE $25.00
1ST-PLACE WINER GETS 20%
2ND-PLACE WINER GETS 10%
3RD-PLACE WINER GETS 5%
Okay. That seemed like a fair prize system. Skye let out a breath of relief and walked past the misspelled signpost. Several feet back, a folding table with a pyramid of beanbags piled in the center teetered on crooked legs. Sitting with his cowboy boots propped up on the table was Earl. He had on a pair of shorts, and over his bare chest he wore a camouflage vest with an attached artillery belt holding beanbags. A bandanna tied around his head had slipped down over the upper third of his face.
Clearing her throat, Skye stepped closer and said, “Earl?”
He turned away from her, and a nanosecond later, a snore that sounded like a backfiring Weedwacker erupted from his open mouth. Business had obviously been slow. Most people in Scumble River knew to avoid the Dooziers’ schemes, and the Party in the Park hadn’t been planned far enough in advance to attract tourists.
Should she try to wake Earl or thank God for small favors and leave? Before Skye could decide, a group of kids loped into the game area, shrieking and hollering. One brave—or more accurately, foolish—boy lobbed a water balloon at Earl.
The liquid-filled projectile was an inch short of its target, but water still sprayed over the sleeping man. Earl leaped from his chair, wrestling off the bandanna that was blinding him, and whined, “I wuz jes restin’ my eyes, honey pie.”
The kids ran away giggling and Skye said quickly, “It’s me, Earl, Skye.” She had taken a step closer but hastily mo
ved downwind. The excessive use of aftershave could only delay the need to bathe for so many days, and Earl had exceeded the cologne’s expiration date. “I just stopped by to see how your tournament was going.”
Earl scowled. “Ain’t no one wants to play.”
“That’s a shame.”
“It’s okay.” His wide smile revealed several stumps and missing teeth. He patted the plastic pistol tucked in his waistband. “If life gives you lemons, squeeze the juice into a water gun and shoot the suckers in their eyes.”
“Uh.” Skye shook her head. “That’s not a good idea. Maybe if you’re patient, people will come by to play later.”
“Well, I’m ready to go round ’em up if they don’t.” Earl tapped the butt of his toy firearm.
“Where’re Glenda and the kids?” Skye hoped his wife would keep Earl in line.
“Oh. Here and there.” He scuttled toward Skye. “Glenda was lookin’ finer than a new pair of snow tires on a Cadillac Escalade, so she wanted to show herself off.”
Skye allowed herself to be hugged, trying not to make contact with any of his many tattoos. Tats usually felt smooth, but Earl’s were as odd as he was, and they radiated a heat that she figured explained his predilection for going shirtless even in the coldest weather.
“Are you all having a good time?” she asked, extracting herself from his embrace.
“Sure.” Earl let Skye go and scratched the bowling ball–size potbelly that hung over his waistband. “Beer and sunshine. A man cain’t ask fur more than that.”
“Definitely.” Skye backed away.
“Hey, are you hot on the trail of that teacher’s murderer?” He tugged at his greasy brown ponytail. “It’s been a couple or three days ago, right?”
“A little more.”
“I miss her on Open Book,” Earl said, the sunshine highlighting the bald spot on his head. “She sure had some funny stuff there.”
Before Skye could speak, she spotted an elderly woman wearing a neon orange muumuu and hot pink high-top sneakers teetering across the grass toward them. She looked old enough to have had buffalo as pets and meaner than Custer at his last stand.
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