They chatted for a half hour or so; then Vince said, “We’ve got to get going. We told Loretta’s family we’d be there at nine, and even if traffic isn’t bad, it’ll take us at least ninety minutes.”
They all followed the newlyweds out of the café, and once Skye and Wally were in his car, he suggested to her, “How about stopping at the Brown Bag for a drink? I hear they have a good fifties band playing tonight.”
“Sure.” Skye shook her head. “I could use something stronger than that champagne.”
The Brown Bag, one of Scumble River’s nicer bars, was packed. There were no free tables and only one spot at the bar. Skye took the open stool, and Wally stood behind her. While they waited for the bartender to notice them, she looked around.
Ay-yi-yi! Sitting a couple places down, with a row of martini glasses lined up in front of him, was Simon. Skye was startled. What was he doing there, and why was he getting wasted? That wasn’t like him at all.
Just as she was considering telling Wally she had a headache and wanted to leave, Simon saw them.
He rose unsteadily and staggered toward them. “Well, if it isn’t Dudley Do-Right.”
“Reid.” Wally’s expression was glacial.
“I hope you’re happy.” Simon poked Wally in the chest. “Xavier quit.”
Skye bit her lip. That wasn’t good. Xavier needed a steady income. On the other hand, burying the dead was a recession-proof industry, and he’d have no problem finding a job at any of the neighboring funeral homes.
Simon interrupted her thoughts by adding, “He said he couldn’t face me every day after lying to me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Wally’s tone was neutral. “Maybe once things settle down, you can change his mind.”
“Like you give a shit,” Simon said in a harsh, raw voice. “You want to see me lose everyone I care about.”
Wally’s jaw tightened. “I couldn’t care less one way or the other.”
“I’m not giving up on Skye.” Simon straightened and seemed to sober up all of a sudden. “I hear you’re having trouble getting your annulment, Boyd.” His smile was predatory. “Just remember, it isn’t over until the fat lady sings.”
“If that’s the case, Reid”—Wally arched a brow—“she’s clearing her throat right now, because I’ve located Darleen.”
When Scumble River is struck with
honky-tonk fever, Skye Denison
wonders if the whole town
will go up in flames.
Read on for a sneak preview of the next
Scumble River Mystery,
MURDER OF A CREPED SUZETTE
Coming from Obsidian in
October 2011.
Skye Denison had to admit that Flint James was hot. Neither the engagement ring on her finger nor her utter aversion to sports of any kind altered the fact that the pro quarterback turned country singer looked like a Greek statue—if statues wore cowboy hats, had smoky whiskey-colored eyes, and sported really good tans.
Flint leaned on the side railing of Scumble River Park’s newly constructed grandstand, gazing at the early evening sky. The rising star appeared unconcerned about whatever was transpiring at the back of the stage, where a cluster of guys in jeans, T-shirts, and baseball caps surrounded a man in an expensive Western-style suit.
To Skye, the group of men looked like the featured rodents in a whack-a-mole game—first one head would pop up, scan the audience, and duck back down, then another and another, before starting the process all over again. It was obvious that something was wrong, but what? While the others appeared merely irritated, Mr. Suit looked apoplectic.
According to the liberally distributed flyers, the program was supposed to start at six thirty. It was already a quarter to seven, and although the pack was ablaze with lights, and there were amplifiers scattered around the stage’s perimeter, nothing was happening.
Perhaps the out-of-towners didn’t understand how much the good citizens of Scumble River valued punctuality, but Skye knew if something didn’t happen soon, people would begin to leave. Small-town Illinoisans considered fifteen minutes early as on time, the stated hour as barely acceptable, and anything afterward as intolerably late.
The only thing that might persuade everyone to hang around was the complimentary refreshments. An open bar tended to keep most Scumble Riverites happy for quite a while.
Skye fanned herself with the old grocery list she had found in the pocket of her khaki capris and watched for Wally Boyd. Wally was her fiancé, but tonight he was on duty as the chief of police.
Usually he wouldn’t be working on a Saturday night, but the entire Scumble River police force was patrolling this event—six full-time officers and two part-timers. An affair like this needed all the crowd control available. It wasn’t often that a celebrity like Flint James performed anywhere near Scumble River, let alone in a free concert.
Which brought up a good question. Why? Why would Flint James agree to come to the middle of nowhere and sing, especially without charging for tickets?
As Skye slapped at a gnat buzzing around her ear, she caught sight of her uncle, the mayor. Dante Leofanti was seated front and center on something resembling a red canvas throne. It had a canopy, a table attached to the arm, and even a footrest. His wife, Olive, sat by his side in a smaller version of the same elaborate chair, although hers was baby blue.
Skye narrowed her eyes. Nothing happened in his town without the mayor’s knowledge and permission. Dante had to have approved the use of the park, the permit to build the grandstand, and the authorization to serve alcohol. He would certainly know why Flint James was singing here, but did Skye care enough to go over there and ask him? No. Dante treated information like a commodity, and she didn’t want to be in his debt.
More to the point, she really didn’t need to know. There was an extremely fine line between concerned and nosy. Skye usually erred on the wrong side of that line, but not this time. She had learned her lesson and was minding her own business for once.
Skye wasn’t on duty as either the town’s school psychologist or psychological consultant to the police department. She was just at the concert to hear some good music and have fun with her friends. Whatever was going on was not her problem.
Speaking of friends, where was Trixie? Skye’s BFF, Trixie Frayne, and Trixie’s husband, Owen, were supposed to have shown up half an hour ago. Skye checked her cell phone. It was on—she often forgot to power it up—and she didn’t have any messages so her friend hadn’t tried to reach her.
Skye attempted to call Trixie, but got her voice mail. After leaving a message asking Trixie and Owen to meet her by the refreshment stand, Skye threaded her way through the crowd, looking for her friends.
While she walked, Skye dug through her purse for a barrette, desperate to get her humidity-frizzed chestnut curls out of her face. The freshly ironed sleeveless white blouse she had put on just before leaving home was now wrinkled and limp, and it clung to her ample curves like a damp shower curtain. Autumn had begun three weeks ago, but the unusually high temperature made it feel like it was still the dog days of summer.
Skye considered giving up on Trixie and Owen and just going home. She could relax in the air-conditioning, watch a movie, and spend some quality time with her cat. Although she liked country music, without both Wally and her friends, the concert wouldn’t be much fun.
Besides, she wasn’t fond of outdoor events unless the weather was perfect. A circumstance rarely found in the Midwest, where it was often necessary to switch from the heat to the AC and vice versa on the same day.
Still, when you lived in the small town where you grew up, worked in public education, and were engaged to the police chief, it was a good idea to show your face at social gatherings. And Skye had finally admitted that she did want to be a part of the community. It had taken her a while, but after five years, she recognized that moving back to Scumble River, despite its rigid sense of right and wrong, had been a good decision.
Not that she’d had much choice at the time since she’d lost her job, maxed out her credit cards, and been jilted. But now, even though she’d saved a little money, could count on a decent job reference, and had a brand-new fiancé, given the choice, she would stay in her hometown for the rest of her life. Too bad this evening was beginning to feel like it was going to last at least that long.
Skye had reached the edge of the lawn-chair- and blanket-seated audience without spotting her friends. Where in the heck were they? She ground her teeth. Shoot! Not only was there no sign of Trixie and Owen, but now she needed to find a bathroom—fast.
Unfortunately, both Port-a-Potties had lengthy lines, and Skye was fairly sure she couldn’t wait however long it would take to get to the front of the queue. On to plan B. There were bathrooms in the picnic area, located behind the grandstand at the far end of the park. With any luck no one would have thought of them.
Skye took off at a brisk trot, but a few steps from her goal, she was stopped by a red plastic ribbon strung between several sawhorses. A large white sign hung in the center. Black lettering read: EMPLOYEES OF COUNTRY ROADS TOUR ONLY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
Crap! There was no time to come up with a plan C. If she didn’t get to a toilet soon, she was going to embarrass herself big-time. Skye looked around. A silver Airstream with COUNTRY ROADS TOUR stenciled on its side was pulled in front of the bathroom, but there wasn’t anyone in sight. She stopped and listened. It was completely quiet. Excellent. She’d be in and out with no one the wiser.
Skye ducked under the ribbon, paused for a nanosecond, then darted toward her objective. Arriving a little out of breath, she found that the trailer was parked so close to the building, she could barely get the screen door halfway open. She squeezed through the gap and sighed with relief when she saw the empty stalls.
A few relieved minutes later, Skye was washing her hands and wondering if Trixie and Owen had ever arrived when she heard angry voices coming from inside the RV. Yikes! She had to get out of here before she was discovered and arrested. Wouldn’t that be a delightful headline: CHIEF’S FIANCEÉ ARRESTED FOR USING A FORBIDDEN BATHROOM.
Skye plastered herself against the wall, willing herself to become invisible, which was quite a stretch, considering her opulent figure. She snuck a quick look through the doorway. A large open window was directly across from the bathroom’s entrance. Why in the heck didn’t they have the air-conditioning on and their windows closed like normal people?
While waiting for her hair appointment last week, she had read in Entertainment Weekly that some singers disliked AC because they claimed it was bad for their vocal chords, but this was ridiculous. It was close to ninety degrees and muggy; surely those conditions couldn’t be good for anyone, even a star’s delicate throat.
Skye shook her head. Why didn’t matter. The window was open, and if she tried to leave now, the suit-wearing guy from the stage who was talking heatedly to Flint James would see her and call the police.
Taking another peek, Skye noted that Flint’s usually handsome face was an ugly scarlet mask, his broad shoulders were rigid, and his hands were fisted. His previous air of indifference was gone, and it looked as if he was itching to punch the other man in the face.
The ex-quarterback had a good five inches and fifty pounds of muscle on Mr. Suit, and could easily cause some real damage to the other guy. Flint might even kill him if the blow landed in exactly the right spot.
Should she call Wally? Make her presence known? Skye wavered. Maybe it was a guy thing, and she would just get herself in trouble if she interfered. She’d promised herself she would stop rushing in to help people who hadn’t asked for her assistance. Then again, she didn’t want anyone to get hurt.
Before she could decide, Mr. Suit’s booming voice brought her attention back to the two men. “We have no choice. Suzette isn’t here and we can’t reach her. We have to get this show on the road.”
“That’s not my problem, Rex.” Flint jabbed Mr. Suit, aka Rex, in the chest. “The star does not go on first. And I’m the star.”
Obviously the opening act was MIA. Skye wrinkled her brow, trying to remember what she had heard about Suzette Neal. All she knew about the girl singer was her age—twenty-two—and that she had lived in the area as a child, although no one Skye had spoken to seemed to recognize Suzette’s name or claim her as kin.
“It’s more than half an hour since we were supposed to start the program.” Rex grabbed Flint’s shoulder. “I order you to get your ass on stage and sing.”
“No.” Flint shook off Rex’s hand as if it were an annoying insect. “Check my contract. You can’t force me to perform out of order.”
“Do it this one time and I’ll make it worth your while.” Rex’s tone turned cajoling. “This concert is no big deal. Just a freebie to get the locals on our side. I promise it will be good for us both.”
“That’s what Suzette wants. You already gave her one of my best songs—one I wanted to sing myself—and you forced me to do a duet with her.” Flint crossed his arms. “Don’t think I’m not onto her schemes.”
“You’re not the only one who’s onto her.” A blonde dressed in skintight jeans, a red sequined tank top, and crimson stilettos pushed her way between Flint and Rex.
Skye shrank back against the wall. She hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the Airstream.
Cocking her thumb at Rex, the woman said, “I warned him about that girl. I told him I didn’t trust her as far as I could run in high heels.”
“Kallista, sweetheart.” Rex sandwiched the blonde’s fingers between both of his palms, “I’m sure something terrible must have happened to keep Suzette away. You know she was dying to sing for her hometown and show everyone how far she’d come.”
“She probably isn’t even really from this place.” Kallista blew an irritated breath through heavily glossed lips. “She only said she was after you told her you’d decided to open the new country music theater here.”
Skye blinked. A country music theater in Scumble River? How would people react to that? It was hard to tell. They generally didn’t like anything different, but this smacked of fame and glamour, so maybe they’d be more accepting than they’d been last month when the new bookstore had opened.
“Now, Baby Girl, how about you do your Big Daddy an itty-bitty favor and go back in the bedroom and try calling Suzette again? Then later tonight Big Daddy will do you just how you like.” Rex turned Kallista around and patted her on the rear until she started walking.
Ew. Ew. Ew. That was just icky. Why did men talk like that to grown women?
Skye squirmed, but focused back on the action when Rex said to Flint, “You have to help me out here. I thought you were a team player.”
“Right. And what did that get me last time? A blown knee and a ruined career.” Flint shook his head. “Now I’m looking out for number one.”
“With that attitude, I don’t know how you fool all your fans into thinking you’re such a nice guy.”
“Really?” Flint made a scornful noise. “You’re the one who taught me that sincerity is everything, and once you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”
Rex ignored Flint’s jab. “You seem to be forgetting that you’re my creation.” Rex snapped off each word as if they were bites of peanut brittle. “Without me you’d still be singing at a honky-tonk, living in your truck, and depending on the tips from a pickle jar to eat.”
“Don’t give me that crap. We both know you didn’t do me any favors.” Flint spat out the words contemptuously. “If I hadn’t been a damn good singer and songwriter, you wouldn’t have raised a finger to help me.”
“There’s more to success in this business than talent,” Rex retaliated, his voice rising.
“Bullshit!” Flint moved until he was nose to nose with the other man. “Now find that little whore, and get her out onstage before I really get mad.” He grasped Rex’s lapels and lifted him off his feet. “I’m not
letting you or her ruin this career for me.”
Yikes! Skye whipped out her cell phone. It was time to call the cops.
Denise Swanson
The Scumble River Mysteries
When Skye Denison left Scumble River years ago,
she swore she’d never return. But after a fight with
her boyfriend and credit card rejection, she’s back to
home-sweet-homicide.
MURDER OF A SMALL-TOWN HONEY
MURDER OF A SWEET OLD LADY
MURDER OF A SLEEPING BEAUTY
MURDER OF A SNAKE IN THE GRASS
MURDER OF A BARBIE AND KEN
MURDER OF A PINK ELEPHANT
MURDER OF A SMART COOKIE
MURDER OF A REAL BAD BOY
MURDER OF A BOTOXED BLONDE
MURDER OF A CHOCOLATE-COVERED CHERRY
MURDER OF A ROYAL PAIN
MURDER OF A WEDDING BELLE
Available wherever books are sold or at penguin.com
S394
Kate Collins
The Flower Shop Mystery Series
Abby Knight is the proud owner of her hometown flower shop. She has a gift for arranging flowers—and for solving crimes.
Mum’s the Word
Slay It with Flowers
Dearly Depotted
Snipped in the Bud
Acts of Violets
A Rose from the Dead
Shoots to Kill
Evil in Carnations
Sleeping with Anemone
Dirty Rotten Tendrils
“A sharp and funny heroine.”
—Maggie Sefton
Available wherever books are sold or at penguin.com
S914
Leann Sweeney
The Cat, the Quilt and
the Corpse
Murder of a Bookstore Babe Page 25