Murder of a Small-Town Honey

by Denise Swanson

  “In real life Mrs. Gumtree was Honey Adair. Her agent finally returned from his weekend trip and identified her late yesterday afternoon.”

  When Skye looked puzzled, he explained, “I dated Honey in high school, the end of my senior year. Don’t you remember?”

  “Now I do. She was really tiny—I was so jealous. The couple of times I was near her I felt like the Incredible Hulk. The name didn’t ring a bell because Mom and Dad only referred to her as ‘That Awful Girl.’ Why didn’t they like her?”

  Vince shrugged. “Honey was pretty wild. She was involved with the druggies at school, and everyone said she slept around.”

  “Did she? With you, I mean?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Vince squirmed. “That’s a big part of the problem.”

  “They suspect you because of an affair that took place sixteen years ago? Have you seen her since high school?” Skye was getting confused.

  “She left town the day we graduated. I don’t think she’s ever been back.”

  “Wait a minute. She lived with Uncle Charlie, didn’t she? I remember—she was his real niece.”

  “Right. His youngest sister was her mother. Her parents were killed in a car crash the summer before her senior year, and she moved here from Chicago to live with him.” Vince began to fold the towels in the laundry basket next to the dryer.

  “It was during that time that he told me to stop coming over to visit. I was really hurt,” Skye said in astonishment.

  “He probably wanted to protect you from Honey’s bad influence.”

  “Even so, with Mom and Dad being so close to Charlie, I’m surprised they didn’t at least try to pretend they liked Honey.”

  “Honey made it difficult for people to ignore her bad qualities. Charlie had a real rough time that year. I think he was mortified by her behavior. All I could see was how pretty she was,” Vince said, looking off into the distance.

  “Typical male. Thinking with your crotch instead of your brain.”

  Vince punched Skye in the arm. She yelped and grabbed for his ponytail. She missed, lost her balance, bumped into a chair, and went sprawling on the floor. Brother and sister both broke into gales of laughter.

  They eventually stopped giggling and Skye got back into the chair. “I still don’t understand why a high school romance makes you the prime suspect. Anyone who came into the salon could have stolen the scissors.”

  “I haven’t told you the worst part.” Vince squatted in front of her. “The morning of our high school graduation Honey asked me to take her for a ride. When I picked her up, she told me she was pregnant and I was the father. All she wanted from me was enough money for an abortion and to get away from Scumble River. Honey hated this town. She said it was full of hicks.”

  “What did you do?”

  Vince glared. “What could I do? I went home, cleaned out my savings, and gave her the five hundred dollars. She promised not to tell Mom and Dad or Charlie, and I thought that would be the end of it.”

  “It wasn’t, though, was it?” Skye guessed.

  “No. In December of that year I got a phone call from her. Luckily, none of you were home. She said she’d decided to have the baby after all and she wanted me to pay child support.”

  “Oh, my God!” Stunned, Skye sagged in her chair.

  “That certainly was my reaction too.” Vince smiled grimly. “I’ve been sending her money every month since that phone call.”

  “Was it a boy or a girl?”

  “A boy. Wade. She only let me see the baby once. Probably to convince me to pay up. But twice a year I’d get pictures and copies of his report cards. I never knew where she was. The money went to a post office box in Chicago, and she met me at Louis Joliet Mall.”

  “Did you know she was Mrs. Gumtree?” Skye reached into her tote and found her notebook.

  “I’ve never seen the TV show, and I didn’t look closely at the posters until this morning. Even then I’m not sure I would have recognized her. The makeup was remarkable.”

  “This must have had something to do with you needing money?”

  “Yeah, she called a week ago and said she wanted to send Wade to private school, and I needed to send her twenty-five hundred dollars by September fifth.” He went back to folding towels.

  “Have you sent it?”

  “No. Since I’ve been going out with Abby I’ve started to think about a lot of things. I told Honey I wasn’t sending any more money until after she agreed to regular visits. She threatened to talk to Mom and Dad, which is what she did every time I balked at giving her more money. But I stood firm this time.”

  “You paid all these years just because she threatened to tell Mom and Dad?” Skye asked incredulously.

  “That was part of it. They’ve never been very proud of me, and I thought this would make them think even less of me. Mostly, though, it just seemed like the right thing to do. If I had fathered a child, I should support it. Honey’s explanation of why I shouldn’t see him seemed logical. Why confuse the kid with a parent who wasn’t going to be around?”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe because he was turning sixteen. I don’t know. All I wanted was to see him. I told her I wouldn’t even mention I was his father.”

  “She refused?” Skye was sure she already knew the answer.

  “After calling me everything but a gentleman, she hung up. There was a message on my answering machine the next day saying she would talk to me Sunday.”

  “Sunday was the day she was killed. I wonder if she planned to talk to you in person,” Skye speculated. “How much of this do the police know?”

  “Only about the styling shears and that we dated in high school. They didn’t mention a child at all, but I told Loretta the whole story.”

  “Good. Who else knows?”

  “No one.” Vince looked uncomfortable.

  “Tell me the kinds of questions the police asked.”

  “Where was I when the murder was committed? When did I last see Honey? Things like that.”

  “Nothing about money or the child. Interesting.” Skye jotted down a note on her pad. “Where were you when she was killed?”

  “Home, alone, getting ready to pick up Abby for the parade.”

  “Did anyone come to the door or call you on the telephone?”

  “No. I picked up Abby about twelve-thirty. Since we were going to watch the parade from the roof of the salon, and it wasn’t supposed to start until one, we didn’t need to get here early in order to get a good spot.” The sound of the front door opening distracted Vince momentarily.

  “From the questions the coroner was asking me,” Skye said, “they seem to think she was killed shortly before I found her, which would be around eleven-thirty. Plenty of time for you to stab her, go home, shower, and pick up Abby looking fresh and clean.”

  “Whoa, I thought you said you believed me.”

  Skye snapped her notebook closed and tucked it back into her tote before standing. “I do, but it’s obvious that the police don’t.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Money Makes the World Go ’Round

  When Skye arrived at the high school on Wednesday morning, she was determined to force the principal, Homer Knapik, to give her some direction. Also, she had several questions regarding scheduling and procedures about which she needed to pin him down. Without his input there was literally nothing she could do for the high school. She didn’t know what day or time the PPS meetings were held, or even how often.

  Homer was not in his office, but his secretary, Opal Hill, reported that he could probably be found in the library. The school’s first IBM computer had arrived late yesterday afternoon, and Mr. Knapik was still in the process of installing and testing it.

  Skye walked down the east hall of the high school, astonished at how little it had changed during the time she’d been gone. The beat-up yellow lockers and shabby lime carpet were just as she remembered. Even the fain
t odor of sweat, hormones, and chalk dust was the same.

  The library was located in the center of the building, accessible by either the east or the west halls. Homer was hunched over a stand that held computer components and several open manuals. Skye pulled up a chair from an adjacent table and sat down.

  He did not look up until she spoke. “Homer, I need to talk to you, and I need to see the confidential files so I can get started with re-evals and find out who is supposed to be receiving counseling.”

  It was very hard for Skye not to address him as “Mr. Knapik”; after all, he had been the principal at Scumble River High School for twenty-five years, which included the time she was a student there.

  Frowning, he looked up. “Oh, Skye. I told you I didn’t want to disturb anything while Neva Llewellyn was away having her baby.”

  “I understand your hesitation, Homer, but I can’t do my job without those folders. And I have as much right to have access to those files as the guidance counselor does.”

  Homer reluctantly dug in his pocket and retrieved a large set of keys, attached to a key fob that resembled a jailer’s ring. He selected two keys and handed the set to Skye. “Here, the big one is for the door and the little one is for the filing cabinets. Don’t take the files out of the guidance office, and put them back like you found them.”

  “Sure. She’ll never know I was there,” Skye said brightly.

  He shook his head mournfully. “She’ll know and she’ll chew my butt for it.” Turning back to the table, he selected a manual and paged through it, wrinkling his forehead in concentration.

  Skye persisted, trying to recapture his attention. “When are your PPS meetings scheduled, and are there any other meetings you want me to attend?”

  “We only have faculty meetings. The secretary can give you the dates for those, but you don’t have to come.” Homer didn’t take his eyes from the page he was reading.

  “You mean you don’t meet regularly with the psychologist, social worker, nurse . . .”

  “We don’t need that here. Anyone gives us any trouble, we kick ’em out. They can’t keep up in class, we flunk ’em.”

  “How about the kids who come to you with an Individual Education Plan in place? We’re legally obligated to provide whatever assistance that IEP prescribes,” Skye pointed out.

  Losing his patience, Homer slammed the book shut. “I told you, Neva takes care of all that.”

  Skye got up, clutching the keys, afraid he would change his mind and demand them back. Still, she felt obligated to try once more. “So, you never have PPS meetings or staffings or anything like that?”

  “Look, if it’s really important to you, talk to Neva when she gets back. You two can set things up, but I am not going to any more meetings.” Homer turned his back and reached again for the manual.

  Having won a small battle in what she was just beginning to suspect might turn into a full-fledged war, Skye hurried toward the guidance office.

  It was cool and pleasant—since it was in one of the newer additions to the high school, it was air-conditioned. Although the room was dark, Skye didn’t turn on the overhead light; instead she switched on the desk lamp. She noticed one file cabinet after another lining the walls, the drawers labeled with various years. It looked as if all the records since Scumble River High was first opened were stored in this room.

  Skye unlocked the drawer identified with the most recent year and inspected its contents. She gathered up a pile of the most promising-looking files, hoping they were confidential special education records that contained Individual Education Plans, and not just cumulative folders containing report cards and group achievement tests.

  She sat down behind the desk. The chair was wonderfully comfortable, deep and enveloping, the soft black leather aged and shaped to perfection. She sighed with pleasure at the unexpected physical comfort and started to work.

  First she wrote down the name of the student on her legal pad. In the next column she listed the date on which he or she needed to receive a three-year reevaluation. Finally, after reading the IEP, which usually consisted of fifteen or more pages, Skye determined whether that child was supposed to be receiving counseling. Later she would have to go back and read the most recent psychological evaluation report on each student who was enrolled in the special education program.

  Several hours went by, and Skye was about to stop for lunch when she heard a tentative tapping on the frosted-glass window of the door.

  Opening it, she found the secretary standing there, twitching. “Were you looking for me, Opal?”

  Opal nodded. “Oh, my goodness, yes. Mr. Knapik is out of the building and the police are here.”

  A sudden wave of nausea left Skye unable to think clearly. It must be about Vince.

  “Are you all right? You’re pale as milk.” Opal looked at her curiously.

  Skye took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I must have gotten up too fast or my blood sugar’s low. It’s getting close to lunchtime.”

  “Could you talk to the police first? With Mrs. Llewellyn gone and Mr. Knapik out of the building, I’m not sure what I should do. Should I call the superintendent?” Opal asked with a touch of panic.

  Shaking her head, Skye almost pushed Opal out of the room. “Why don’t you ask the police to come in here where we can have some privacy? Give me a minute to put these folders back.”

  In the few moments it took Skye to tidy up the files and lock them away, she realized how foolish she was to think the police would come to tell her they’d rearrested Vince. The chief had been ready to put Skye in jail Monday night when he found out she was the one responsible for May’s behavior and Loretta Steiner’s presence. After that incident, Skye would be the last person on Earth the police would notify.

  Opal ushered Deputy McCabe and a Scumble River officer whom Skye didn’t know into the office. Opal left, closing the door behind her. Both men stood in front of the desk and looked down at Skye.

  “I’m Skye Denison, the district psychologist.”

  “I’m Deputy McCabe. You remember me from the murder last Sunday?” When she nodded he continued, “This is Officer Roy Quirk. What can you tell us about a girl named Phoebe Unger?”

  “Nothing. I’m brand-new here, and I’ve never heard of her.” She indicated chairs. “Please sit. What kind of information are you looking for?”

  They sat, the leather of the utility belts around their waists creaking.

  Quirk settled back and crossed his legs. “We’d like to know who she hangs out with, who her boyfriend is, what the school’s impression of her is.”

  Skye nodded. “I’m sure we can get that information for you. It’s not confidential. But Mr. Knapik, the principal, will want to know why you’re so interested in Phoebe.”

  “That’s official police business. There’s no need for you to know, little lady.” McCabe rubbed a smudge from the toe of his perfectly polished shoe.

  Leaning forward, Skye made eye contact with each man in turn. “I certainly understand your need to keep things quiet in an ongoing investigation. And that it isn’t always an easy task in a town this size. But you must understand that we need to know what you think she’s done. If her actions make her a danger to our other students, we must be informed.”

  “We’ve had an anonymous informant tell us that her boyfriend, who does not go to school here, may be involved in a series of arson-style fires.” Quirk straightened the crease of his pants.

  McCabe glared at him.

  “I see. So, at this time she does not appear to be a danger to herself or others. Correct?” Skye looked from one man to the other.

  Both men nodded.

  “Fine. Then I’ll talk to Mr. Knapik when he gets back. With his permission, I’ll speak to her teachers and try to get the information you need.”

  Quirk handed her his card. “Call me as soon as possible.”

  When school ended that day, Skye drove straight to the Scumble River Police Department. She was g
oing to be a good citizen and deliver the information about Phoebe Unger to Officer Quirk in person. If, while she was there, she happened to chat with Chief Boyd about Honey Adair’s murder, who would she be hurting?

  Walking up to the counter, she raised her voice. “Hi, Thea. How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  Thea Jones, one of Scumble River’s longtime dispatchers, opened the gate and motioned Skye through, then gave her a hug. “Skye, honey, how you doin’? I’m sure sorry for the trouble your family’s havin’.”

  Skye hugged her back. “Me, too. I hope Chief Boyd finds the real killer soon. It’s just silly to think of Vince as a murderer.”

  “Ain’t that right?” Thea sat back down. “Sometimes these men around here don’t think too good. None of us dispatchers think he done it.”

  Leaning over, Skye kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks. I have some information on another case for Officer Quirk. Is he available?”

  “Yep. He’s in with the chief. I’ll let ’em know you’re here.”

  Following a short conversation on the intercom, Thea turned to Skye. “Go right into the chief’s office, honey. They both want to hear what you got to say.”

  Smiling to herself, Skye thought, How convenient. I won’t even have to ask to see Chief Boyd.

  He was standing on the threshold. When Skye approached, he motioned her inside and closed the door. Office Quirk was in one chair, and Skye took the other visitor’s seat.

  A faint smell of stale cigarette smoke lingered in the air. Skye looked around but didn’t see any ashtrays, so she suspected the odor was from before Chief Boyd’s time. His office was small and windowless, its gray walls lined with file cabinets and bookshelves. Linoleum that might have been blue when it was first put down but now looked silvery covered the floor. Shrouding the top of the chief’s desk were papers of every shape and color. His chair was cracked green vinyl.

  Chief Boyd sat on the edge of his desk, pushing a stack of manila files out of his way. “So, Skye, what can you tell us about Phoebe Unger?”

  “Well, she certainly talks tough. No one knows if she carries out her threats, but if anyone crosses her or she thinks anyone has crossed her, she wants revenge.”