A couple of minutes later, Skye pulled her car into one of the few remaining spots in the diner’s parking lot. Hopping out of the Chevy, Skye hurried inside. She hoped there would still be an available table.
It was well into supper rush hour at the Feed Bag—Scumble River was a rural community whose hardworking citizens ate at daybreak, noon, and five. No late-night, leisurely dining for them. By six o’clock they were in front of their televisions ready for the news, and a half hour later they were settled into their recliners watching Wheel of Fortune.
While she waited to be seated, Skye scanned the crowd. People who came to the Feed Bag felt as if they were part of an extended family. For the elderly, it was a comfort knowing that the staff would notice if they varied from their normal routine and that someone would check up on them if they didn’t show for their customary coffee, bowl of soup, or game of chess.
For the young families, it was reassuring that no one would frown if their kids were loud or messy. Not to mention that when the check arrived, they wouldn’t have to take out a second mortgage to pay it.
And for the singles, it was a safe place to go on a first date. Or a comfortable spot to meet up with other like-minded people looking for a love match.
Lost in her thoughts, Skye didn’t notice the Feed Bag’s owner, Tomi Jackson, until the tiny woman asked loudly, “You meeting the chief?”
“Unfortunately not.” Skye shook her head ruefully. “It’s just me tonight. Wally’s too busy with the murder investigation.” Thanks to the Star, there was no use being discreet. By now there wasn’t a man, woman, child—and maybe even pet—in Scumble River who hadn’t read and thoroughly discussed the case.
“Poor guy still needs to eat,” Tomi grumbled as she led Skye to a booth recently vacated by a couple who still stood close by, chatting with friends. It was near the wall of windows and a prime spot to observe everyone in the place. “When you’re ready to leave, I’ll fix up something to go for him and you can drop it off at the station.”
“That’s a great idea.” Skye threw her tote bag onto the bench seat and slid in beside it. “I’m sure he’d love your fried chicken basket.”
“Will do.” Tomi handed Skye a menu. “Do you need a couple of minutes?”
“Uh-huh. I want to check out the specials before I decide on an entrée.” Skye flipped open the laminated pages until she found the center insert. “In the meantime, I’ll have a caffeine-free Diet Coke with a slice of lime. I did a lot of talking today, and I’m dry as a bone.”
“Coming right up.” Toni stuck her pen into her platinum-blond beehive, a style that added several inches to her height. Ageless, she had been a part of Scumble River for as long as Skye could remember. “If you have a taste for something exotic, the meat loaf and mashed potatoes platter is fair to middling tonight. Cook’s been watching the Food Channel and got sort of daring. He added curry powder to his usual recipe and made it into little individual loaves.”
“Thanks for the tip.” Skye watched the owner as she tottered away in five-inch heels. How Tomi worked twelve-hour shifts wearing stilettos was beyond Skye. But the high-heeled shoes and the hairstyle were the older woman’s signature look, and she hadn’t changed either since the restaurant opened forty years ago.
A few seconds later, when Tomi returned with her soda, Skye—having deciding to skip the meat loaf since she had never been fond of hamburger in any form except a patty—asked for the smothered chicken plate. After the older woman left to convey the order to the cook, Skye sipped her drink and gazed around the restaurant.
Tomi had redecorated the place in the eighties, using lots of mauve and brass, and hadn’t touched it since then. More than twenty years of hard wear and tear were catching up with the interior. Rips in the vinyl seats had been repaired with duct tape, smudges on the walls had been dabbed with a color that didn’t quite match the original paint, and the ivy in the planters along the backs of the booths was long dead and replaced with plastic flowers that hadn’t been dusted in recent memory.
Still, the only ones who noticed the dated decor were the occasional tourists who wandered in on their drive down Route 66. And most of them soon learned that trash-talking a beloved Scumble River institution like the Feed Bag was not a good idea for their continued well-being. Vehicles had been known to develop sudden engine problems, flat tires, and mysterious scratches to their pristine paint jobs if their titleholders were too vocal or too persistent in their criticism of the restaurant.
Speaking of people making disparaging remarks, Skye dug through her tote bag for the mystery she was currently reading. A pompous author had just been killed after disparaging small towns in his speech to a book club, and she was anxious to see how the amateur sleuth would manage to insert herself into the investigation.
She knew firsthand that looking into a murder with no authority was tough, which was why she’d been happy to accept the position as the psychological consultant to the Scumble River Police. The pay was minuscule, but there were other compensations. Not the least of which was sleeping with the police chief.
A chapter and a half later, Skye’s visit to a fictional rural community in Missouri was interrupted when Tomi brought her a fresh soda and apologized. “I’m real sorry it’s taking so long. I have no idea how, but we ran out of potatoes. I sent a busboy over to Walt’s Supermarket to buy some more and he just got back. It’ll probably be another fifteen or twenty minutes. Is that okay?”
“Sure.” Skye tapped the cover of her book. “This will keep me occupied, and there isn’t any place I have to be, so I’m in no hurry.”
“I sure wish everyone felt that way.” Tomi grimaced. “Around here, patience doesn’t seem to be a strong point for a lot of folks.”
As Tomi darted away to soothe her hungry customers, Skye smiled in sympathy. She could empathize with the business owner. Most of the people she worked with weren’t all that understanding of delays either, and everyone thought their problem should be her priority.
Before Skye could focus back on her mystery, the front door opened, and she glanced toward the entrance. It was now well past the accepted Scumble River suppertime, so she was curious as to who was eating so daringly late.
Somehow Skye wasn’t surprised when Emerald, aka Emmy, Jones glided inside the restaurant. Emmy, a beautiful woman in her late twenties or early thirties, had moved to town to teach dance classes in the studio her mother co-owned with Skye’s aunt Olive.
Emmy had been involved in some unspecified trouble while living in Las Vegas and had been sent to Scumble River for a fresh start, but she hadn’t quite adjusted from Sin City to small-town America. Dining early, dressing to blend in, and not rocking the boat were just a few of the customs to which she was still becoming accustomed.
Skye watched as Emmy spoke to Tomi, who shook her head. Frowning, Emmy scanned the room. When she spotted Skye, she waved, then pointed to herself and the empty bench at Skye’s table. Putting her hands together as if in prayer, she mouthed the word please.
So much for a quiet dinner reading her book. Skye forced a welcoming expression onto her face, nodded, and waved the shapely blonde over. Skye wasn’t at all sure how she felt about Emmy. She’d initially met her during a murder investigation that took place the week before Skye’s wedding, so bridal jitters could certainly have influenced the surge of jealousy that had zipped through her psyche when she’d first laid eyes on the woman.
Not only was Emmy stunning, but she was a member of the same gun club as Wally. He’d admitted that the dancer had hit on him when she’d originally moved to town, but he’d assured Skye that once Emmy was aware he was engaged, she’d treated him as no more than a friend. However, Skye still had her doubts.
She noticed that as the gorgeous performer sashayed toward her, she shamelessly flirted with every man she passed. Emmy playfully tapped their arms, patted their shoulders, or touched their
cheeks, teasing one with, “I haven’t seen you in a while,” and another with, “We missed you at the last gun club competition.”
Wives and girlfriends scowled, but the men preened under her attention. Dressed in a high-waisted, formfitting red pencil skirt and a tight black blouse, she reminded Skye of a fifties pinup girl, which made Skye recall the burlesque routine that Emmy had performed at Wally’s and her bachelor/bachelorette party. It had been fairly innocent, but that seductive dance might be why Skye still had a lingering feeling of wariness toward the stunning woman.
“Hi, Emmy.” Skye pasted on a smile. “Care to join me for dinner?”
“That’s so sweet of you.” Emmy slid onto the bench opposite Skye. “Tomi said they’d had some sort of supply snafu so it would take a while for any tables to free up.” Emmy pouted. “And I’m starved.”
“If you put in your order right away, it’ll probably come out when mine does,” Skye suggested, then asked Tomi, who had just walked up, “Right?”
When Tomi nodded, Emmy shoved away the menu and said, “Great. I’ll have the ribs, coleslaw, and a loaded baked potato.”
“Coffee?” Tomi gestured with the pot she held in her left hand.
“I guess so.” Emmy giggled. “If you served drinks, tonight I’d say, ‘Step aside, java. This is a job for alcohol.’”
After Tomi filled Emmy’s cup and left, Skye searched her mind for a topic of conversation.
Before Skye could think of anything, Emmy wiggled in her seat until she was comfy, then said, “How are the shooting lessons going?”
“I decided to put those off for a while.” Skye reflexively placed her hand on her stomach, then quickly removed it. They really did have to announce the pregnancy soon, before she inadvertently did something to spill the beans.
“Oh. Yeah. About that. I hope you weren’t mad about the whole recoil thing.” Emmy’s expression was a little sheepish. “It’s sort of a joke we play on all the newbies. I promise not to do it again.”
“I wasn’t upset,” Skye assured her. So Kathy Steele had been right. Emmy had given that gun to her on purpose. She would need to keep that in mind in dealing with the mischievous dancer. “The lessons just aren’t convenient right now.”
Emmy glanced around. “Is that handsome husband of yours here?”
“Nope.” Skye fought to keep the smile on her face. “He’s busy on a case.”
“That’s a shame,” Emmy purred. “He hasn’t been out to the club in quite a while either.”
“Well . . .” Skye gave Emmy a long look. “You know how it is with newlyweds.” She wasn’t sure if she was making casual conversation or warning the strikingly sexy woman away from her man. “Since I haven’t been interested in shooting, he’d rather stay home with me than go fondle some pistol or rifle by himself.”
“There I go again. Sorry about that.” Emmy blew out a frustrated breath. “Sometimes I forget to take off my professional persona.”
“Do you have a stage name?” Skye examined the tall, lithe woman, hoping that by professional she meant burlesque dancer, not something else.
“I’m considering Willow St. André.” Emmy tossed her ponytail. “What do you think?”
“Nice.” Skye nodded. “Classy, yet provocative. I like it a lot.”
“Thanks.” The lovely dancer beamed, then wrinkled her brow when ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” started playing from her purse. She fished a cell phone out of the black alligator clutch and swept her finger across the screen. Frowning, she tapped a few keys with her thumbs, sighed, then quickly touched another icon and tapped again.
Skye viewed the whole process with suspicion. She had figured out texting, although with the old-style keypad on her cell, it was a tedious process. And she’d seen some of the more advanced devices that some of the students possessed, but what in the heck was Emmy doing?
“Look.” Emmy held out her phone. “See what I just posted on Open Book.”
“Open Book?” Skye squinted at the tiny screen. She didn’t see anything that looked like a book. Next to a teeny picture of Emmy were the words: At the Feed Bag with my friend Skye Denison-Boyd. Can’t wait to hear ALL she has to say about a certain ex-boyfriend of hers.
Emmy swept the screen with her finger, and Skye saw photos of people she didn’t recognize, cute animals, and even a few flowers. Next to each miniature picture were random comments about the weather, elaborate recipes, and cats.
“What in the world is all that?” Skye asked, confused at what she was seeing.
“You’re joking, right?” Emmy arched a feathery brow, and her sapphire blue eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You aren’t on Open Book?”
“I guess not.” Skye shrugged. “It’s hard to be ‘on’”—she arched her fingers in air quotes—“something you’ve never heard of.”
“Oh. Yeah. I forgot.” Emmy wrinkled her cute little turned-up nose. “Wally mentioned that you aren’t really into the whole Internet thing.”
“That’s not completely true,” Skye protested, wondering just when her husband had mentioned that little tidbit to the beautiful dancer. “I’m catching up.”
“Well, Open Book is an online social networking site,” Emmy explained. “Some brainiacs at a big university created it so people all around the world could meet, share interests, and express themselves.”
“And anyone can see what you write or the pictures you put up?”
“Sort of. I don’t really understand all the technicalities.” Emmy bit her lip. “I do know that there are ways to limit who can look at your posts, but most people don’t bother to do that.” She shrugged. “Like the whole point of putting up a profile, writing status updates, and taking photos is for other people to see them.”
“Aren’t there privacy concerns?” Skye asked, appalled. “I mean, if you took a picture of us together and put it up but I didn’t want my photo on this site, could I make you take it down?”
“I have no idea.” Emmy’s eyes widened. “Why wouldn’t you want people to see your picture or know you and I were together at the Feed Bag? I get lots of gigs for my burlesque routine that way.”
“Not everyone wants to live their lives in full view of the public eye.” Skye mentally slapped her forehead. Of course a performer would love something like Open Book. Someone with those types of aspirations had to have at least a little bit of an exhibitionistic tendency or they’d never be able to face an audience.
“I suppose.” Emmy didn’t look entirely convinced. “Anyway, Open Book is fun, and it’s a good way to subtly let someone know something you don’t want to come right out and tell him.”
“Oh?” Skye caught a hint of spite in Emmy’s voice. “Like what?”
“Like, say someone didn’t show up for a date. You could post a picture of yourself with someone they would prefer you weren’t alone with.”
“Are you referring to Simon?” Skye asked, hiding a smile. Emmy was dating Skye’s ex-boyfriend, and he was as straitlaced as they came. Simon wouldn’t be fond of Skye and his new girlfriend exchanging feminine secrets or making comparisons about him.
“Yes.” Emmy pushed out her bottom lip. “I think he’s starting to take me for granted. We were supposed to meet here at six fifteen, and now I just got a text from him saying he can’t make it. I figured that when he wasn’t here when I arrived, he was standing me up again. He always puts business before me.”
“Well . . .” Skye trailed off, not knowing what to say. “Simon is like that.”
How much time were the bubbly blonde and the somber funeral director spending together? Were they getting serious? Emmy seemed to be a younger version of Simon’s mother, which would drive him crazy. Then again, the embrace Skye had witnessed had seemed off the chart in sensuality, and men could forgive a lot if the woman was hot and the sex was even hotter.
“And it worked like a
charm.” Emmy ignored Skye’s statement and pointed to the entrance.
“Good gravy!” Skye grimaced. Simon had pushed through the glass doors and was scowling in their direction.
CHAPTER 15
STAN—Stalker Fan
Simon strode purposefully toward their table. He greeted various folks along the way but ignored anyone’s attempt to detain him and start a conversation. As always, he wore a perfectly tailored dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and highly polished black oxfords. He pointedly gazed at Emmy as he slid in next to Skye.
Shoot! Why did I scoot over for him? Skye scowled. The whole polite thing wasn’t working for her. She had to quit being so nice.
Once Simon was seated, he said, “Are you ladies having a nice chat?”
Emmy tossed her long blond hair back and retorted, “We were.”
Skye kept her mouth shut. Simon’s presence was awkward on a couple of different levels, and she wasn’t about to add to any of them. She really didn’t want to witness a lover’s quarrel between another couple, especially one involving an old boyfriend. And judging from the exasperated look on Simon’s face and Emmy’s defiant expression, they were about to have a doozy of an argument.
Worse, Wally would not be happy when he heard that she’d had dinner with her ex-beau. He wouldn’t care that Emmy was also there. With Skye and Simon’s history, the gossip would be relentless. And before long, Simon and Emmy’s squabble would be turned into a fight caused by Simon’s unrequited love for Skye.
While Emmy stared at her boyfriend, Tomi hurried over and asked, “What can I get you, Simon? The girls’ meals will be out any second, so if you all want to eat at the same time, I recommend the prime rib, the meat loaf, or the turkey dinner.”
“Just coffee.” Simon glanced at Emmy. “I only have a couple of minutes.”
“How about a slice of pie with that?” Tomi pulled over one of the cups already on the table and poured from the pot in her hand.
Murder of An Open Book: A Scumble River Mystery (Scumble River Mysteries Book 18) Page 13
