Murder of a Small-Town Honey

by Denise Swanson

  The judging of the chokeberry jelly contest was one of the main events of the Chokeberry Days Festival. With only a few minutes before the official start, the building was crammed with people. Skye heard snatches of conversation, mostly discussions of the various pranks and why Chokeberry Days should or shouldn’t continue.

  Skye looked at her watch, wondering where Mayor Clapp was. They couldn’t start the judging without him. As time passed and the judging did not commence, the crowd grew restless. They had already divided themselves into two groups—those for Chokeberry Days and those against. As the heat rose in the metal building, tempers flared. Skye gnawed on her lower lip. Five more minutes and she was starting without the mayor.

  Gradually she realized that one voice was making itself heard above the crowd. “These pranks have got to stop. People are getting hurt. Mayor Clapp needs to do something.”

  Skye scanned the throng, trying to see who was speaking. Instead she spotted Lloyd Stark, the junior high principal, who was chanting, “Cancel Chokeberry Days!”

  When the opposition heard him, they began to accuse Lloyd of pulling the pranks. Faces turned red and fists were raised. One man brandished a hammer.

  Turning to her co-judge, Skye said, “We’d better do something. That mob’s reaching the point of accusing Lloyd of assassinating John F. Kennedy and kidnapping the Lindbergh baby.”

  Before the other woman could reply, Skye’s grandmother, Antonia, who had been standing with Minnie on the sidelines, walked over to Skye’s table, grabbed the biggest jar of chokeberry jelly, and smashed it on the floor.

  The roar was abruptly silenced at the sound of the breaking glass. Into the stillness Antonia asked, “Can any of you really imagine Lloyd messing with a cow or crawling in the dirt around the Go-Karts?”

  Although the silence continued, tension still throbbed, until Minnie snickered and everyone else started laughing.

  Lloyd looked around the sea of faces and perhaps not seeing a friendly one, marched out the door in a huff.

  The crowd remained quiet until one man dressed in a suit started preaching about the sins of Chokeberry Days. He talked about the property damage, the people injured, and the trash scattered everywhere.

  Skye whispered to her fellow judge, “Who’s that guy?”

  “Mike Young. Nice-looking, isn’t he?”

  Before Skye could think of a response, the name-calling started again, this time led by the owner of the liquor store, and was quickly picked up by other merchants.

  Chokeberry Days was to Scumble River what Mardi Gras was to New Orleans. It brought in so much money that retailers could afford to run their businesses at half profits for the rest of the year. They tripled their rates and sold souvenirs, overpriced crafts, and soda at two dollars a can. The liquor store stayed open twenty-four hours, and the town’s restaurant actually required reservations.

  Even the farmers made a profit selling “antiques” from their barns and attics, and the last of the vegetables from their gardens. Their wives sold quilts, afghans, and homemade preserves.

  Anyone who threatened Chokeberry Days threatened these people’s pocketbooks. And they were mighty protective of their cash flow.

  Skye’s attention was drawn back to Mike Young, who was shouting, “The only reason the mayor allows this whole debauchery is because he gets to pose with a celebrity and gets his picture in the paper.”

  Skye was still eyeing the crowd when a young boy with flaming red hair ran through the open door screaming, “The mayor’s dead! The mayor’s dead!”

  The crowd was silent for a moment, then a babble of voices erupted. It grew louder and more angry. Skye slipped out from behind the jelly display, grabbed her aunt and grandmother, and ran for the door. She was afraid Scumble River was about to experience its first riot, and she didn’t want to be around to see it.

  CHAPTER 2

  Don’t Rain on My Parade

  Skye stood trapped on the telephone in her kitchen. She was still dressed in the perspiration-soaked clothes she had worn to attend Mass that Sunday morning. No air-conditioning for Saint Francis Church. Let the Protestants have their creature comforts, the Catholics sweated for Jesus.

  The mayor’s “death” and miraculous recovery had been the talk of the congregation. The official story was that he had seen someone messing around the beer tent and gone to check things out. When he tried to tap one of the kegs, he received an electrical shock. An open current had been rigged to the metal handle. Although Mayor Clapp had briefly stopped breathing, he appeared to be fully rejuvenated today. Some people wondered out loud why he had been trying to open the beer—one of the most vocal had been the owner of the liquor store.

  But Skye’s caller wasn’t interested in Mayor Clapp’s health. Easing her grip on the telephone receiver, she tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “Yes, Uncle Charlie. Mom dropped off the T-shirt, but I told you I’m not doing it.”

  Charlie Patukas wasn’t really her uncle, but he was a close friend of the family, and godfather to both her and her brother, Vince. More important, he was grand marshal of Scumble River’s Chokeberry Days parade and a man not used to being argued with, as his irritated tone clearly indicated. “I’m counting on you, Skye. The whole town is counting on you.”

  “I did my duty yesterday. Judging the chokeberry jelly contest was awful enough.” She twisted her arm behind her back, trying to reach her zipper, and listened to the silence emanating from the receiver. “Isn’t there anyone else who can do it?”

  His tone grew silky. “There’s no one that I trust, or that owes me her brand-new job.”

  “You know how grateful I am. Thank you again for making sure they didn’t look too deeply into my employment history. Insubordination is hard to explain.” She mopped the sweat from her forehead with a paper towel. Having a godfather who was president of the school board had its uses.

  “Good. Saying ‘thank you’ is nice. Showing your appreciation is nicer.” Charlie’s satisfied grin could be detected over the phone lines.

  “Okay, I give up. You got me. I’ll be there in half an hour.” In the past year Skye had become good at admitting defeat.

  Hanging up the phone, she stomped into the bathroom. The humidity had turned her long chestnut hair into a mass of unmanageable curls, which she swept into an elastic band. She jammed a baseball cap on her head and flipped her newly created ponytail out the back opening.

  The Weather Channel had predicted temperatures in excess of ninety degrees, and by the way the sunlight had shimmered on the parked cars when she’d driven home from church, she guessed it was already well over that mark. The heat did not improve her mood, and as she changed into navy shorts, she berated herself for promising to help Charlie baby-sit the parade participants.

  For some reason she’d been having trouble saying no to people since she’d moved back to Scumble River. Did she feel guilty for all the nasty things she’d said about the town as a teenager, or was she just tired of fighting the system?

  Skye put on a freshly washed and ironed white cotton blouse. As she began to button it, her glance strayed to the fashion monstrosity thrown across her bed. Sighing, she reluctantly shrugged out of the top and donned the official Chokeberry Days T-shirt. The front of the shirt featured a picture of Mrs. Gumtree, star of Mrs. Gumtree’s Gumdrop Lane, a children’s TV show produced in Chicago. Printed on the back was:

  SCUMBLE RIVER CHOKEBERRY DAYS

  High School Band Competition—Thursday, August 27

  August 28, 29 & 30

  Cow Chip Bingo

  Fish Fry

  Carnival

  Arts & Crafts

  Beer Tent

  Go-Kart Racing

  Only people wearing this shirt were to be allowed “backstage” at the parade, but it was a hideous pink, supposedly the same shade as chokeberry juice, and Skye felt ridiculous in it. Small comfort that the men forced to wear the shirt would feel even more ludicrous.

  Skye had
barely buckled her seat belt and turned on the car radio before she arrived at the parade’s staging area. Nothing in Scumble River was farther than a five-minute drive. It was a small farming community grouped around a downtown that lacked adequate parking space. Most of the larger businesses had long since moved to the outskirts in search of asphalt. The floats, bands, and official cars were meeting in the block-long parking lot shared by McDon ald’s, Walters’ Supermarket, and the Ace Hardware store at the edge of the city limits.

  The parade’s route was all of a mile and a half long, following the two main streets that bisected Scumble River. Its finish line was at the other side of town near the railroad tracks and the river, where another large parking lot could hold all the participants.

  Skye pulled her car into a narrow spot between a battered brown truck with a wire hanger stuck into the space where an antenna should have been and a bright red motorcycle. After maneuvering her way out of the tight space between her door and the other vehicle, she began to look for Charlie.

  Squeezing between vehicles and people, she came to a float representing the high school’s football team, the Scumble River Scorpions. It was done all in red with a huge black scorpion crouched in the center. A blood-like substance dripped from its stinger onto the prostrate dummy dressed in a rival football team’s uniform. Several football players and cheerleaders were adding finishing touches to the gore, but there was no sign of Charlie.

  An equestrian group was gathered off to the side, the riders grooming their massive mounts. The horses’ coats gleamed brightly: black, white, brown, and roan. The people themselves sparkled with rhinestones and glitter.

  Her next stop was a white convertible on loan from the Scumble River Lincoln-Mercury dealership. Apparently Mayor Clapp, the owner of that business, was taking no chances on anyone forgetting that his company had provided the car, as it had huge placards on both front doors. Mrs. Gumtree would ride in solitary splendor in the backseat.

  Close by, a large motor coach acted as the TV star’s dressing room. It was on loan from Clay Center’s RV dealer, as its large billboard pointed out.

  Another sign, this one hand-lettered, stated:

  DO NOT DISTURB

  NO AUTOGRAPHS

  ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ADMITTED

  THIS MEANS YOU!

  Skye smiled to herself as she continued her search for Charlie. She hoped the trailer had good soundproofing and a sturdy lock because no sissy sign would keep out the citizenry of Scumble River if they took it into their heads to visit Mrs. Gumtree before the parade.

  After wending her way past the high school band, a troop of clowns, and the Lions Club float, Skye’s T-shirt was sticking to her back and her feet were beginning to burn. She could smell the aroma of hamburgers coming from the nearby McDonald’s. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t had anything to eat since dinner the night before. I’ve had it. If I don’t find Charlie in the next ten seconds, I’m going back to my car and he can find me if he wants my help so badly.

  Taking a left at the next float, Skye began to head back toward the parking area. She heard Charlie before she spotted him. He was yelling at Fayanne Emerick, the owner of the liquor store across the street from his motor court.

  Today Fayanne was dressed in the official Chokeberry Days T-shirt, two sizes too small, and red stretch pants. To Skye, she looked like a raw sausage oozing out of its casing. Fayanne’s mouth was puckered tighter than the shrink wrap on a package of meat and her X-ray eyes looked as if they could bore a hole into Charlie’s skull. Fayanne was poking him in the chest with her right index finger.

  Skye hesitated, not wanting to get involved in whatever trouble Fayanne was trying to stir up, but also not wanting to forsake Charlie in his hour of need. Before she could settle on a course of action, Fayanne stalked off.

  Charlie spotted Skye and motioned for her to come over. At close to six feet and three hundred pounds, Charlie Patukas was not easily ignored, nor his wishes disregarded. He wore his standard uniform of gray twill pants, limp white shirt, and red suspenders. His expression implied he’d seen it all—twice—during his seventy years. He began talking before she could ask what was up with Fayanne. “Skye, you look beautiful. I’m so glad you finally put some meat on your bones.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Charlie. What a sweet thing to say.” At least someone, besides herself, was happy with the new curvier Skye.

  Charlie went on smoothly, “I’m glad you’re here. I need a woman’s touch.”

  “For what?” Skye backed up, prepared for flight.

  “I need to talk to Mrs. Gumtree, to tell her what to do in the parade, but she doesn’t answer her door.”

  “I saw her dressing room while I was looking for you. If the sign on the door is any indication, she doesn’t want any company.”

  Charlie took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. “I’m not company. I’m the grand marshal, and I need to give her some instructions. I’ll bet she wouldn’t pull this shit if the director from her TV show wanted to talk to her. For crying out loud! It’s less than an hour ’til show time and I haven’t even met the woman yet. No one has. Except for the storytelling yesterday, she hasn’t come out of her trailer.”

  “I’m sure she’s afraid she’ll get mobbed by kids wanting her autograph.”

  He held up one hand and clutched his throat with the other. “I’ve pounded on that trailer door ’til I bruised my hand, and I yelled until I was hoarse. She knows it’s not kids wanting her autograph, she’s just being a pain in the—”

  Skye interrupted before he could get into a full-blown description of his true feelings on this matter. “So, you want me to go injure my hand and lose my voice too, right?”

  “Yep. I figure you can psychoanalyze her out of her trailer.”

  Giving him a dirty look, she turned to go. “What am I supposed to say if I do get her to open the door? Maybe you should come with me.”

  “I’ve got to go talk to Wally about who he’s assigned for the parade’s police escort. I’ll check on you in ten minutes or so.”

  Skye stood on the top step of the motor coach’s metal stairs and knocked. There was no response—not that she expected any. If Mrs. Gumtree could ignore Charlie’s banging, it was a sure bet she wouldn’t be motivated to open the door by Skye’s puny efforts.

  Next she called, “Uh, Mrs. Gumtree.” She felt asinine calling a grown woman “Mrs. Gumtree,” especially through a closed trailer door.

  No reply. She raised her voice and tried again. “Mrs. Gumtree, I’m not a fan.” Skye realized how bad that sounded as soon as it left her mouth.

  She was beginning to feel desperate, which prompted her to yell as loudly as she could, “Look, Mrs. Gumtree, I’m from the parade committee. Mr. Patukas, the grand marshal, needs to speak to you right now.”

  Nothing. Skye grabbed the knob, intending to rattle the door, but on her first shake it swung open. She braced herself and stuck her head into the room. To the left was the kitchen area. A divider blocked her view to the right. She called out again. Silence.

  Stepping inside, she stopped for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. As she edged past the panel, she could see the section of the trailer previously hidden by the room partition. It contained an immense dressing table with a mirror surrounded by lights and a padded bench, turned on its side. All the drawers of the dressing table had been pulled out and their contents scattered on the floor.

  Suitcases and a garment bag were turned inside out, their linings slashed. A makeup case, its contents oozing into the green carpet, lay on its side, the hinges broken. Peeking out from under the bench were feet shod in pointy rolled-up-toe shoes. It looked as if the remains of the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz were crumpled on the trailer floor.

  Skye ran over and pushed the bench aside. “Mrs. Gumtree, are you all right?”

  There was no answer or movement, but she still couldn’t see the whole person, as the head and torso were in the k
nee-well of the dressing table. She crouched down and reached into the recess, trying to find a pulse, and felt something sticky instead. When she withdrew her hand, it was covered with blood.

  Pressure, Skye thought, fighting to stay calm. I should apply pressure to the wound. But I can’t see where it is. Should I drag her out of there? No. You aren’t supposed to move people who are injured.

  Stop it, she commanded herself. You can do this. You’ve been trained to remain detached. You’ve got to distance yourself.

  This isn’t grad school. This is an actual emergency. Do something constructive. Skye sank to her knees. The sour taste of bile surfaced in her mouth.

  She tried to disconnect her emotions. Is she alive? Find out.

  Skye crawled forward and steeled herself to reach back into the blackness. Stretching as far as she was able, not wanting to slip and land on the woman, she pressed her fingers into the bloody neck. No pulse.

  Before she could make a decision about her next move, someone started pounding on the door.

  Things were happening too fast for her mind to process. Skye reacted instinctively. “Who is it?”

  “Goddamn it, Skye, who do you think it is? Santa? Let me in.” Charlie’s voice was unmistakable.

  She stood up, mindful to touch nothing—all those years of watching Dragnet reruns were paying off at last.

  She walked to the door, gathering her thoughts before speaking. “Charlie, listen carefully. Something has happened in here and you can’t come in. I don’t want to touch the knob on this side of the door, but since it isn’t locked you can open it. Don’t come in, just open the door and then step aside, so I can come out.”

  The door swung open and Charlie plunged into the room. Skye grabbed him by the arms and propelled him back out. He tripped on the top step, stumbled down the remaining stairs, and landed in a sitting position on the ground.

  He looked up at Skye, who was closing the trailer door as if it were made of eggshells. “What the hell was that about?”