Murder of a Small-Town Honey srm-1

by Denise Swanson

  Once Lloyd left, Skye spent some time organizing the confidential special education files she had found. The search had turned out to be more like a scavenger hunt than

  the simple task she was expecting. After being directed to at least ten different locations, she finally located the fold­ers in the basement next to the cleaning supplies. They were moist and smelled like a mixture of mold, pine scent, and lemon.

  Taking the records from their damp cardboard boxes, Skye put them into her new file cabinet, stopping now and then to separate pages that were sticking together. They completely filled one drawer and part of the second. She didn't attempt to read them, but was content with putting them into some recognizable order... like alphabetical.

  After an hour of sorting out the records of the students currently enrolled in the Scumble River Junior High special education program, she looked at her watch and realized she hadn't been back to talk to Darleen. She stuffed the re­maining folders into the cabinet, locked it, and hurried to the special ed room. She arrived just in time to find Darleen locking the door.

  Skye apologized, and they made another appointment, for the next day during Darleen's planning period. Darleen seemed relieved that she didn't have to talk to Skye that day after all.

  It was nearly five that afternoon, and Skye had finished up at school only half an hour ago. She rested her hip casu­ally against the registration desk of the Up A Lazy River Motor Court and scanned the small office, noting that little had changed in the years she'd been away. The walls were still painted a drab brown, the desktop was still scarred and in need of refinishing, and the only chair remained occu­pied by her honorary Uncle Charlie, who was busy barking orders into the phone.

  When she had first arrived, Charlie's gray color and rapid breathing had scared her. He'd just been ending a telephone call when Skye walked through the door, and she heard something about paying someone some money by

  Friday. She had tried to ask what was going on, but the phone rang again, and Charlie had been on one call or an­other ever since.

  At least his color was better and he seemed more like his usual self—aggravated, headed toward infuriated, possibly not stopping until he hit fully enraged. "We are not refund­ing the parade entrants' fees. Check the contract the carni­val people signed. No refunds for an act of God." He listened for a few seconds. "And I say murder is covered under that clause."

  The window air conditioner labored in an attempt to keep the tiny room cool. When Skye had driven past the Scumble River First National Bank, the thermometer read ninety-one degrees. The humidity hung like used plastic wrap.

  Skye dug into her purse until she found a coated rubber band. She gathered her hair into a thick ponytail and nar­rowed her green eyes against the smoke from Charlie's cigar. Tapping her fingernails on the counter, she waited for him to hang up.

  He pounded on the desk and yelled, "Then check with your goddamn lawyer! Why in the hell did you call me in the first place?"

  Charlie banged down the phone and ran sausagelike fin­gers through his thick white hair, then heaved himself out of the battered wooden swivel chair and swooped Skye into a bear hug.

  Intense blue eyes under bushy white brows scrutinized her face. "Are you okay with what happened yesterday? Everyone treating you right? Anyone bothering you, just let me know, and I'll take care of them. Nobody better mess with my goddaughter."

  She was breathless, but returned his hug. "Uncle Char­lie, you haven't changed a bit. I'm fine. They're all being nice to me. I just wanted to thank you again. I don't know what I'd have done without this job."

  Releasing her, he settled back down into the creaking chair. "We should thank you. We've been trying to hire a school psychologist since the middle of last year. The last one we had up and quit in November. Said we weren't pay­ing enough for the amount of problems he had to deal with. And you know we've never been able to keep a social worker—they say we're too primitive."

  Skye frowned. "What kind of problems was he referring to?"

  "We never could figure that out. Sure, we've got our share of troubles. Usually at least one suicide or drowning a year, child abuse, family feuds... but that goes on every­where, right?"

  Her one year of experience had ended with her being fired, so she was hardly an expert on what was usual. Not wanting to talk about her last job, Skye answered evasively, "Guess I'll find out soon enough. Maybe being from town will help."

  Sighing, she leaned her forearms against the desk. "So, tell me all the gossip. What's this about Mrs. Gumtree re­ally being only in her thirties?"

  "Everybody is sure talking about this murder, but no one is saying anything. It was a terrible thing, you finding her like that. We don't want anyone thinking that you're a wit­ness or anything, so you make sure everyone knows you didn't see a thing when you were in that trailer. You didn't see anything, right?"

  "Nope. But everyone sure is interested in what I didn't see."

  "Good. You make sure you tell everyone you didn't see anything and you don't know anything." Charlie shook his finger in her face.

  "Sure." Skye shrugged. "What do you know about her? I never heard of Mrs. Gumtree before all this happened."

  "She was just a character actress on a children's televi­sion show."

  "Funny, I haven't heard about her from the kids."

  "Her show, Mrs. Gumtree 's Gumdrop Lane, is only on in the Chicago area." Charlie finished his cigar and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray at his elbow. "But I did hear there was talk of syndication."

  Skye shrugged, losing interest. "Do they have any idea who killed her?"

  "The police chief is still trying to get in touch with her agent or someone from that TV station. It seems they all went away for the weekend."

  She reached for the motor court's register. "Gee, I won­der if any of them weekended in Scumble River."

  "Mike Young says it's gotta be someone from Chicago, like her publicist or personal manager. He says all those show business people are sinners and abominations in the eyes of God." Charlie slid the ledger out of her grasp and into his desk drawer.

  "When did he become God's messenger? The week be­fore I left town, he was sent to prison for dealing drugs. Now he dresses like a lawyer and talks like a TV evange­list."

  "You're way behind. Mike only spent eighteen months in prison. He's been out over ten years. He's hardworking and God-fearing now." Charlie sat back, thinking out loud. "Why, Mike's active in his church and makes a good living. That other stuff was just wild oats when he was a teenager."

  "I really don't remember him very well. He was a friend of Vince's from high school, but they were four years ahead of me. Do you know anything about his jail time, or was it kept a secret?"

  "Skye, honey, you been away too long if you think there isn't a person in Scumble River who doesn't know every last detail. There are no secrets here."

  "Except for the murderer's identity," Skye said quietly. Moving closer to Charlie, she asked, "Who do you think killed her?"

  "Well, now that you mention it, I thought I saw the prin­cipal of the junior high, Lloyd Stark, hanging around her dressing room yesterday. I only saw him from the back, so I didn't get a good look. Of course, I'm probably not a very good judge because I just plain don't like him." Charlie put his arm around her.

  "Wonderful. That should make my job easy, since he knows you were behind my getting hired."

  "He won't give you any trouble. He knows I won't put up with any bull. In fact, you could do me a little favor."

  "What?" Skye crossed her arms and backed away.

  "Hey, don't be like that. I get the feeling all is not right with Lloyd. He's hiding something from the school board. I want you to nose around and let me know if you hear or see anything suspicious."

  She rolled her eyes. "Charlie, you're skeptical of anyone who has a different opinion than yours. I can't spy on my new principal."

  "Don't think of it as spying. Think of it as being a
good listener and an intense observer. Kind of like the job de­scription of a psychologist, isn't it?" Charlie walked her to the door.

  Skye's smile was sickly. She had forgotten how convo­luted small-town politics could get.

  Even for the end of August in Illinois, it was sweltering. During the day the sun had beat mercilessly on the blacktop of the motor court's parking lot, turning the asphalt into glue. Skye's T-shirt stuck to her back. She felt her sandals being sucked almost off her feet with each step as she walked across the empty lot toward her blue Chevy Impala with patchwork fenders and a crumpled hood. God, she hated that car—ugliest thing in three counties.

  Skye noticed that the Brown Bag Liquor Store across Maryland Street was enjoying a brisk business. It hunkered on the river embankment like a malevolent toadstool.

  In high school her classmates had often dared each other to go in and try to convince its owner, creepy old Fayanne Emerick, that they were old enough to buy beer. Skye never made the attempt, preferring even then not to take chances. She was still faintly uneasy about entering that building, al­ways having pictured underage teens tied to medieval torture devices in the back room.

  The car's black interior was blistering hot. Before gin­gerly sliding behind the wheel, Skye pulled the legs of her shorts down as far as they would go, in order to cover the backs of her thighs, while making sure the bottom of her plain white T-shirt extended past the waistband. As always, the car started smoothly and idled perfectly. She rolled down all the windows—it had no air-conditioning—and put the transmission into drive.

  / wish the damn thing would die so I wouldn't feel like it was such a waste of money to buy a new one, Skye thought as she turned left on Maryland. Her brother's hair salon, Great Expectations, was the second building to the right after the bridge. This was the first time Skye had seen Vince since Christmas. He'd been out of town when she arrived last week, and with the Chokeberry Days excitement she hadn't been able to catch up with him over the weekend.

  As Skye turned into the gravel lot, she saw two children hurling stones at the glass sign in front of the building. She got out of the car and strolled toward them.

  They did not acknowledge her presence or stop their rock throwing. The boy looked to be about eight and the girl a year or so younger. Both were wearing grimy shorts, dirty tank tops, and sullen expressions.

  She squatted between them. "Hi. It's pretty boring around here, isn't it?"

  Glancing at her as if she were something he'd scraped off the bottom of his shoe, the boy selected the biggest stone from his pile and threw it as hard as he could. Skye heard the sound of glass cracking but could see no damage ... yet.

  She tried again. "You know, my brother owns this place, and I'll bet he has some toys inside you could play with while you're waiting for your mom or dad."

  This time the girl was the one to hurl a rock after giving Skye a defiant look.

  Skye examined them carefully and thought of what her favorite professor always said: Understanding works with some kids, but most need structure and consequences.

  Determining that these children were of the latter vari­ety, Skye said, "Stop throwing those stones right now. You're going to break that sign, and your parents will have to pay for it."

  They both looked at her contemptuously and threw a fistful of rocks.

  Without another word, she took each by an arm and marched them into the building, undisturbed by their squirming protests.

  The door of the salon opened into a waiting area. A woman sprawled in an upholstered wicker chair, her dirty feet propped up on the glass table in front of her. She held a grocery store tabloid inches from her nose.

  An archway revealed the styling area, where another woman sat in an elevated chair, shrouded in a plastic cape. Skye quickly sized them up and guided the children toward the one reading the paper.

  This woman was in her late twenties and looked like many of Scumble River's young mothers. She had do-it-yourself dyed-blond hair and watery brown eyes. Ignoring the children, she glared at Skye. "Yeah? What d'ya want?"

  "Are these your children?" Skye met her stare with a neutral look.

  "Yeah. You got a problem with that?" The woman's voice became more strident, and she stuck out her chin.

  In response, Skye made her speech more formal. "They were throwing rocks at the glass sign outside. I'm sure you

  do not want to incur the cost of replacing it. I believe the price to be nearly two thousand dollars."

  "You blaming my kids?" She shot out of her chair and put her face within inches of Skye's.

  Skye took a step back. "No. I'm blaming you for how you're raising them."

  The woman's eyes darted rapidly around the room. "Who do you think you are? The police?"

  "Simply a concerned citizen." Skye paused for effect. "But I'd be happy to call the police if you prefer to deal with them."

  The woman swept her belongings into a large, discol­ored straw purse and slid her feet into rubber thongs. Her face wore an ill-tempered expression. "I don't have to take this. I'm telling Vince."

  Skye smiled and crossed her arms. "Please do. I'm sure my brother will be interested to hear why you allow your children to damage his property."

  Huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf, the woman appeared to see the children for the first time. She snatched them away from Skye and jerked them toward the door. "Junior, Bambi, get away from her." Tugging at the crotch of her denim shorts, her halter top exposing a large expanse of chalk-white skin, she spun back toward Skye. "You keep your hands off my kids."

  Skye lifted both hands, palms forward. "My pleasure."

  As the woman scuttled out, dragging the children behind her, the little boy looked back at Skye. His smile appeared victorious, and she realized that he had gotten exactly what he wanted: his mother's attention.

  The banging of the door brought Vince hurrying from the shampoo area. His long butterscotch-blond hair was tied in a ponytail, and there were beads of sweat above his emerald-green eyes. Through the window in the door he saw his customer's retreating form. "What did you do to Glenda Doozier?"

  "Told her the truth."

  Skye marveled at how out-of-place Vince looked for Scumble River. Dressed in chinos, a blue chambray shirt, and boat shoes without socks, he could have just stepped off a movie set.

  In contrast, she'd summed up the town years ago by ex­plaining that there are white-collar communities and blue-collar communities, but Scumble River is a no-collar community. Consequently, the rednecks could be identified without obstruction.

  Brother and sister stared at each other for a few seconds before Vince made the first move, as he always had since they were children, gathering her into a hug. "What have you done to yourself?"

  Feeling uncomfortable, Skye plucked at her shorts and shirt. "What do you mean? I know I need a trim. That's one of the reasons I stopped by."

  He shook his head. "No, I mean your weight. How much have you gained?"

  "A few pounds, but it's no one's business but my own. I admit I'm calorically challenged, but I've decided to exit from the diet roller coaster."

  Vince held her at arm's length and examined her. "But, Skye, you have such a pretty face. You can't let yourself go like that."

  Skye stood tall. "Let's get this straight once and for all. The decision has been made. I am tired of eating less than eight hundred calories a day. This is my natural weight. I stopped dieting right after Christmas and have been where I am since April. This is what they call my set point."

  "Does this have anything to do with breaking up with your fiance?" Vince questioned.

  "No. And I've told you I don't want to talk about him— ever."

  "Look, I know keeping thin hasn't been easy for you, but what will people say?"

  "I can't believe you would care what people say, Vince. Haven't I always accepted you for yourself? Who has al­ways defended you to Mom and Dad? I've never asked you to get a more masculine job so people
won't talk. How can you do less for me?"

  Vince had the grace to look chagrined. "You're right, Sis. It was just such a surprise. I guess you still look pretty good. At least you filled out in most of the right places."

  "Thanks a lot. I know some people won't think I look good unless I become anorexic, but I'm finished obsessing about my weight. End of discussion."

  "Okay, okay. Since I seem to have an unexpected can­cellation, I can cut your hair as soon as I finish with lona." Vince gestured toward the woman in the styling chair, who had been following their conversation with great interest.

  She waved.

  "Great. I'll wash it myself while I wait." Skye started in the direction of the shampoo bowls but turned back. "By the way, why are you working alone?"

  "Things have been kind of slow, so I had to let the re­ceptionist and the other stylist go."

  Skye emerged from the shampoo area with her hair in a towel and plopped herself into the chair, still warm from lona's recent occupation. Vince whipped off the towel and started to comb out her tangles.

  She squirmed and frowned at his image in the mirror. "Don't cut off too much. Only any inch or so, to get the split ends."

  "Why don't you let me try something different? Maybe a shoulder-length pageboy."

  Skye gave her brother a forbidding look. "No! No! No! I like it long and one length so I can tie it back or put it up."

  "You're no fun."

  "Last time you had fun with my hair I ended up looking like a Navy recruit."

  "Fine. If that's how you feel, I'll just trim it." Vince grabbed a section of hair and held it straight up from her head.

  They both turned to look as the front door opened. A UPS deliveryman held out a small package and a clipboard. "Hi. Sign right here, please."

  Vince grinned and reached for the pen. "Thanks." He scribbled his name, grabbed the box, and tore it open. "I've been going crazy without these."

  After the UPS man left, Skye asked, "What was that all about?"

  "I misplaced my styling shears last Saturday. I've had to make do with an old pair until these got here. The other ones just aren't as sharp."