Murder of a Sweet Old Lady

by Denise Swanson

  Trixie patted her hand. “I’m so sorry for all the bad stuff.” She grinned. “But this is too cool. We’re together again.”

  “Tell me what happened since you moved. Why didn’t you write me back?” Skye frowned, remembering how hurt she had been when she never received a reply to her letters.

  “When we moved to Rockford, my parents had a misguided idea that I would adjust better if I didn’t have any reminders of Scumble River, so they never gave me any mail. They never told me until I was getting ready to move back here.”

  “Well, that explains a lot.”

  Trixie screwed up her face and shook her head. “Parents.”

  “So tell me the rest.”

  “Okay, it’s not very exciting. I finished high school in Rockford. Went to Illinois State for my B.A. and then got my master’s in library science from the University of Illinois. I married Owen Frayne right out of college and we’ve been renting a farm in Sterling until we could save enough to buy our own. And voilà, here we are.” Trixie beamed.

  “You might be just in time. A lot of farmland is being purchased by developers who are gambling that Scumble River will become the next satellite suburb of Chicago.”

  “Boy, I’ll bet people around here are hot on that subject.”

  “Lots of fighting going on between neighbors, and even between fathers and sons.”

  Trixie frowned. “That’s a shame. Is your family thinking of selling?”

  “No. Grandma Leofanti would rather die than sell an inch of her land.”

  “That’s good. Does she still make those fantastic apple slices?”

  A look of sadness crossed Skye’s face. “No, I’m afraid not. She’s still strong as an ox physically, but her mind’s not too good for recent stuff, and she forgets to take care of herself sometimes. Around Christmas the family hired someone to live in and make sure she’s okay.”

  “That’s too bad. She was such a fun person. So outspoken. And a real feminist. She always seemed ahead of her time. More modern than your aunts.” Trixie was silent for a moment. “Did you have trouble finding someone to take care of her? We sure did when Owen’s mother was sick.”

  Skye nodded. “Yeah, we finally had to hire someone from an agency in Chicago. They supply women fresh off the boat from Poland. Mrs. Jankowski, the one we have now, seems okay, but she speaks very little English and that can’t be good for Grandma. Plus, she doesn’t drive, so she and Grandma are both stuck on the farm unless someone picks them up.”

  “It makes you scared to get old. Maybe that’s why people stop going to visit the elderly. They see their own future and can’t stand it.” Trixie shuddered.

  “At first I sort of felt that way,” Skye admitted. “But then Grandma started telling me the family history. She’d never talk about the past before, so I’m finding out a lot about my family. We’re up to her first year of marriage. Grandpa was not her only fiancé. The first guy got killed in an auto accident. Sounds to me like she married Grandpa on the rebound. I stop by almost every day after school. Actually, that’s where I’m heading when I leave here.”

  Trixie jumped up. “You’d better get going then. She’ll be looking for you.” She rummaged in her purse, finally locating a scrap of paper and stubby pencil. “Here, write your number down.”

  After Skye complied, Trixie tore the slip in two and wrote her number on the other piece. They hugged and Trixie scurried back the way she had come.

  Skye climbed into her borrowed car and turned the air conditioner to max. After pulling her hair into a ponytail, she peeled off her pantyhose, slid on a pair of blue cham bray shorts, and removed her skirt.

  The fuel gauge showed less than a quarter of a tank. She’d better stop for gas on her way back from seeing Grandma. Her visit with Trixie had put her behind schedule and she didn’t want to arrive just as her grandmother was sitting down to eat.

  Grandma Leofanti lived halfway between Scumble River and the neighboring town of Brooklyn. Skye’s Uncle Dante, her parents, and her Aunt Mona all lived along the same road—separated only by acres of corn and beans. They could all see one another’s houses when the crops weren’t mature.

  Heading north, then turning east, she spotted the remains of the original Leofanti farmhouse, which had been leveled in the tornado of 1921. The only thing left was the building’s chimney, which rose out of the field like the stack of a ship sailing on a sea of corn. A few minutes later she passed her relatives’ farms. No one was in the front yards and all the garage doors were closed.

  As Skye pulled into her grandmother’s driveway, she noticed a large group of hawks circling the isolated farmhouse, braiding the breeze with their feathered wings. She frowned. That was weird. She didn’t remember ever seeing more than a single hawk at a time before. A shiver ran down her spine and she was glad to emerge from the car’s icy interior into the heat of the June afternoon.

  The white clapboard house was situated about a quarter of a mile back from the road, surrounded on three sides by fields. It was small by today’s standards and Skye often wondered how her mother, two younger sisters, and a brother had managed to live there without killing each other.

  She had parked in her usual spot beside the garage, and as she crossed the concrete apron, her grandmother’s cat, Bingo, paced anxiously near the front door of the house. He was solid black with a tiny patch of white on his chest. Antonia had told Skye she named the cat Bingo because it was the only way she’d ever get to call out the word, since she never won the game when she played.

  Skye bent and scooped him into her arms. “What are you doing here? You know you aren’t allowed outside. Did you get away from Mrs. Jankowski?”

  Bingo blinked his golden eyes and yawned. Hoisting the cat up to her shoulder with her left hand, Skye grabbed the knob and pulled with her right, only to stumble backward when the door wouldn’t open. That was odd. First Bingo was outside, and now the door was locked. Grandma hadn’t locked her doors since she’d stopped leaving the house.

  The key was kept on a nail hanging on a nearby window frame. Skye used it to open the door and replaced it before going inside. The entryway was painted a dark green, with worn gray linoleum. Its dankness reminded Skye of a cave. Straight ahead, five stairs going up led to the rest of the house.

  She called out as she climbed the steps into the kitchen, “Mrs. Jankowski, it’s Skye.”

  There was no answer. The kitchen light was off and the stove empty. She set Bingo down. He immediately ran to his water bowl and hunched down for a long drink.

  What in the heck was going on? Her grandmother liked to eat at four and it was already ten to. And where was Mrs. Jankowski?

  The dining room was empty and the door to the bathroom was open, so she could see that no one was inside. Skye peeked into Mrs. Jankowski’s room. The bed was made and the dresser top was clear.

  “Yoo-hoo, anyone here?” Skye’s voice quavered. Had something happened to her grandmother? The only reason she left the house was to go to the doctor. Where was Mrs. Jankowski?

  The living room was empty. Grandma’s chair was placed against the wall, squared with the empty eye of the television set. Beside it, her knitting bag was partially open with needles sticking out the top. Pink, blue, and yellow yarn seeped out the edges, indicating that Grandma was working on another baby afghan.

  Taking a deep breath, Skye forced herself to walk toward her grandmother’s bedroom. Other than the screened front porch, it was the only place she hadn’t looked.

  The door was closed. She knocked. “Grandma, are you okay? It’s Skye.”

  No answer. The knob turned easily under her hand but the door squeaked loudly as she pushed it open. At first she couldn’t see because the blinds were drawn and the room was completely dark. Skye fumbled for the light switch.

  Grandma Leofanti lay unmoving in the bed, the white chenille spread pulled over her face. The only thing visible was a cloud of snow-white curls. At five feet tall and ninety pounds, she did
n’t take up much space on the double bed.

  “Grandma!” Frightened, Skye stepped closer and pulled the counterpane down to her grandmother’s chest. Who had put the cover over her head? Antonia Leofanti was claustrophobic and couldn’t abide anything covering her face. She wouldn’t even wear a dress that had to be put on over her head.

  Skye’s sense of fear grew. Putting her hand on the old woman’s shoulder, she gently shook her.

  Antonia was unresponsive. Skye felt for a pulse, and when she couldn’t feel one, laid her head on her grandmother’s chest, searching for a heartbeat. Nothing. Throwing the bedclothes all the way back she started CPR, ignoring the fact that her grandmother’s body felt cold and stiff.

  Oh, please, Grandma, it’s not your time. You haven’t told me the rest of your story yet.

  She paused. The CPR wasn’t having any effect, but she bent to try again. The doctor just told us that there was nothing wrong with you physically, that you could live to a hundred. Come on, he gave you twenty more years.

  There still was no response, and drawing a ragged breath, Skye conceded defeat. She sat on the floor, laid her head on the bed, and sobbed.

  CHAPTER 2

  Hub-a-Dub-Dub, Two Men, That’s the Rub

  Bingo stood at the open bedroom door, tail and ears flattened, fur ruffled. The sound of his mournful yowls finally penetrated Skye’s prayers.

  She rose unsteadily and picked up the cat. “What do I do now, Bingo? Everything feels like it’s out of control. I can’t think.”

  The cat twitched his ears and nudged Skye’s chin with his head.

  “I need to call someone. Who? The emergency squad? Father Burns?”

  Wiggling out of her arms, Bingo landed on his feet and ran from the room.

  Skye followed him into the kitchen. She couldn’t call for the police or the ambulance. Skye’s mother, May, worked for the Scumble River Police Department as a dispatcher. She also handled the phones for the fire and emergency departments. Her mom might be working. It wouldn’t be right to have her find out that way.

  The cat jumped onto the counter and peered out the window over the sink.

  “I should call Father Burns.”

  Bingo put his paws on the sill and pressed his nose to the window.

  “Maybe I could call Simon. He would know what to do. After all, what’s the use in dating a guy who’s the coroner and owns the funeral home if he can’t take over in a situation like this?”

  But instead of picking up the receiver, Skye sat on one of the chairs drawn up to the table. She listened to the roar of the window air conditioner, studied the smell of long-ago cooked meals, and talked to God.

  Skye looked at the phone. She hated to make the call, knowing that by doing so she was admitting her grandmother was dead. Sighing, she picked up the handset and punched in the number.

  He answered on the first ring. “Reid’s Funeral Home. May I help you?”

  “Simon? It’s Skye.”

  “What a pleasant surprise. You don’t usually call me at work.” The warmth in his voice washed over her.

  “I, ah, don’t like to bother you there, but I need your help.”

  “Sure, what’s wrong?” His tone changed to one of concern.

  “I’m at my Grandma Leofanti’s and . . .” Skye took a deep breath and forced back tears. “She’s dead.”

  “I’m so sorry. Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you called anyone else?”

  “No.” Skye swallowed. “The thing is I’m not sure, I mean it could be a natural death, but, ah, Mrs. J is missing.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be right there.”

  The click of the phone being hung up made Skye feel cut off from the rest of the world. Her gaze wandered over the kitchen and she noticed Bingo’s dish was empty. She searched the cupboards, but couldn’t find the cat food. Then she remembered. Grandma believed freshly prepared chicken and fish were better for the feline’s health and kept only a few emergency cans of food in the pantry.

  Finally she located the Friskies on a back shelf and emptied the contents of the can into Bingo’s bowl. Skye took the cat from the counter and set him in front of his dish. He sniffed suspiciously, but eventually gave the food a nibble.

  Gnawing on her lip, she thought. I hope that wasn’t a “girl” thing to do, turning everything over to Simon to solve my problems.

  The sound of tires crunching over gravel captured Skye’s attention, and her glance flew to the window Bingo had been guarding. The garage door was ajar. She was sure it had been closed when she pulled in. Why would anyone go in there? She was driving Grandma’s car and there wasn’t anything else in there but junk.

  Maybe it was someone from that survivalist camp a couple of miles down the road. Their property shared a fence with the Leofanti’s back forty and all spring Antonia had complained about them trespassing and hunting on her land.

  Skye grabbed a flashlight from a drawer on her way out. She crossed the grassy area between the house and garage at a good clip, but slowed as she neared the door. This was really idiotic. When she read about some heroine doing this in a book, she always called her stupid.

  The door swung fully open at her touch. The overhead fixture didn’t come on when she flipped the switch so she thumbed on the flashlight. Staying on the threshold, Skye swept the small interior with the beam. Everything seemed to be the way she remembered it from last September when she’d backed out her Grandma’s old green Buick.

  The garage was just big enough for one car, a few boxes, and a couple pieces of discarded furniture. There was no place for anyone to hide and nothing looked disturbed.

  Shrugging, Skye backed away and closed the door, making sure it was firmly latched. She circled the house and sat on the front steps. Within seconds Bingo stood at the screen door and yowled until she let him join her.

  Questions were starting to intrude upon her grief when she heard the first siren. She stood up for a better look, disturbing Bingo, who had been twining between her ankles. He meowed sharply and disappeared under the porch.

  A procession of official vehicles led by a Scumble River police cruiser, followed by an ambulance, with the Reid Funeral Home hearse bringing up the rear, roared down the gravel road.

  A man leapt out of the cruiser and another out of the hearse. Both raced toward Skye. Walter Boyd, the chief of police, got there first and put his arm around her shoulder. He was a handsome man in his late thirties whose warm brown eyes held a look of concern. Running his other hand through his thick black curls, he hugged her wordlessly. His hair was just beginning to show threads of gray, but both his tan and muscular build declared him to be a man of action.

  While the two paramedics plunged indoors, Simon stopped at Skye’s other side and took her free hand, narrowing his eyes at the chief. In appearance, Simon was the antithesis of Chief Boyd, tall and lean, with elegant auburn hair and golden-hazel eyes.

  The chief spoke first. “Your mom wasn’t on duty, so I sent Officer Quirk to find her.”

  Skye nodded. “Thanks, Wally.”

  It had taken her a year to feel comfortable calling him by his first name. When Wally had first come to Scumble River as a twenty-three-year-old patrolman, Skye, then a teen, had been convinced she was in love with him. She’d followed him around, turning up wherever he took a break or stopped for a meal. He was always a perfect gentleman, never mocking her or taking advantage of the situation. Nevertheless, when she first returned to town she was embarrassed to remember how lovesick she had acted, and she had found it difficult to look him in the eye, let alone call him anything but Chief Boyd.

  “I called Vince when no one answered at your folks’,” Simon added, squeezing her hand.

  Vince, her brother, owned and operated a hair styling salon called Great Expectations. He was usually the easiest one in the family to locate because he worked there fourteen hours a day.

  “Thanks. I’m a wreck. I keep thinking about the stu
pidest things.”

  Before Skye could elaborate, one of the paramedics poked his head out the door and called for Simon. He kissed her cheek and hurried inside.

  Well, that settles it. Grandma is really dead. They don’t call for the coroner otherwise. This thought brought a fresh bout of tears.

  Wally held her while she cried on his shoulder. When Skye felt herself melting in his embrace, she made herself stop sobbing and pulled away, reminding herself for perhaps the hundredth time that he was a married man and she was dating Simon.

  Using the handkerchief Wally provided, she wiped her face and blew her nose.

  “So what ‘stupid things’ are you thinking about?” Wally asked after she had collected herself.

  “Where’s the housekeeper?” Skye blurted. “Why were the covers pulled up over Grandma’s face? What was Bingo doing outside? The doctor just said she was fine. Why is she dead?”

  Wally patted her shoulder. “Now, Skye honey, there could be lots of reasons for those things. The housekeeper’s a foreigner, right?” Skye nodded. “Well, she could’ve gotten scared when your grandmother died and called for someone to pick her up. The cat probably got out when she left. And she, no doubt out of respect, covered your grandma’s face.”

  Wally’s answers made sense, but Skye still felt troubled. Something just didn’t add up.

  After a few minutes, Skye sighed and made a move to stand up. “I’ve got to call my aunts and uncle. She’s their mother too.”

  “Sure, but why don’t you give Quirk a little while longer to find May so you can tell her first? Isn’t she the oldest?” Wally kept hold of her hand.

  “The oldest of the three girls, but my Uncle Dante is the oldest. He’s sixty.”

  Before she could break away from Wally, the paramedics poured from the house, yelling, “Gotta go. Another call,” as they rushed by. They piled into the ambulance and squealed out of the driveway, sounding the siren.

  They almost crashed into an old Cadillac that came barreling into the drive, throwing up gravel and blowing its horn. It shuddered to a stop and the door was flung open. The six-foot-tall, three-hundred-pound man who emerged from the front seat charged over to Skye.