Murder of a Bookstore Babe srm-13

by Denise Swanson

  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

  A Cats in Trouble Mystery

  Jill’s quiet life is shattered when her house is broken into and her Abyssinian, Syrah, goes missing. Jill’s convinced her kitty’s been catnapped. But when her cat-crime-solving leads her to a dead body, suddenly all paws are pointing to Jill.

  Soon, Jill discovers that Syrah isn’t the only purebred who’s been stolen. Now she has to find these furry felines before they all become the prey of a cold-blooded killer—and she gets nabbed for a crime she didn’t commit.

  “A welcome new voice in

  mystery fiction.”—Jeff Abbott,

  bestselling author of Collision

  Available wherever books are sold or at penguin.com

  OM0009

  Other Scumble River Mysteries

  Murder of a Wedding Belle

  Murder of a Royal Pain

  Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry

  Murder of a Botoxed Blonde

  Murder of a Real Bad Boy

  Murder of a Smart Cookie

  Murder of a Pink Elephant

  Murder of a Barbie and Ken

  Murder of a Snake in the Grass

  Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

  Murder of a Sweet Old Lady

  Murder of a Small-Town Honey

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 9c23519d-ea70-4499-b0d6-b6ac6d8dc3d0

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 17.6.2012

  Created using: calibre 0.8.56, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Denise Swanson

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