“It’s about time you answered.” The voice of May Denison pounded into Skye’s ear. “There’s a family emergency. Get over here right away.”
Skye growled in aggravation as her mother hung up without further explanation. Then her mother’s words penetrated the fog of her bad mood. Emergency! Had something happened to Skye’s father? Her grandmother? One of her countless aunts, uncles, or cousins?
A busy signal greeted Skye’s repeated attempts to call back. No doubt May had taken the phone off the hook to force Skye to come over as ordered, rather than phone and ask questions.
Catching her reflection as she hurried past the foyer mirror, Skye hesitated. Her chestnut curls were scraped back into a bushy ponytail, the only paint on her face was the Tiffany blue she was using on her dining room walls, which did nothing for her green eyes, and the orange sweat suit she had put on to work in made her look like a big, round pumpkin.
Shaking her head, she decided it would take too much time to transform herself into a presentable human being, and instead grabbed her jacket, purse, and keys from the coat stand. She ran out of the house and leapt into the 1957 Bel Air convertible her father and godfather had restored for her a few years ago after several unfortunate incidents that left her previous cars undrivable.
The Chevy was a boat of a car, which made it hard to lay rubber, but Skye stomped on the accelerator and the Bel Air flew down the blacktop, white vapor pouring out of the tailpipe in the below-zero temperature. Seven-and-a-half minutes later Skye wheeled into her parent’s driveway and skidded to a halt on the icy film covering the gravel.
Where were all the vehicles? If there was a family emergency, the driveway should be packed with cars and trucks. Did her mom need a ride to the emergency? No, May’s white Olds was parked in the garage. What the heck was going on?
Skye flung herself out of the Bel Air, jogged up the sidewalk, and across the small patio to the back door. She spared a glance at the concrete goose squatting at the corner. Except for the holidays, when it was dressed as anything from a Halloween witch to an Easter Bunny, its costume was usually a good barometer for May’s mood. Given that it was January 10, too late for New Year’s and too early for Valentine’s Day, the fact that it was wearing an apron and a tiny chef’s hat, and had a rolling pin clutched in its wing, must mean something, but darned if Skye had a clue as to what.
Shrugging, she continued into the house, calling, “Mom, what’s going on? What’s the emergency?”
Silence greeted her as she dashed through the utility room’s swinging doors and into the kitchen. Still no sign of her mother, but Skye slid to a stop as her gaze swept past the counter peninsula and reached the dinette.
Skye felt all the blood drain from her head and the room start to sway as she stared at the table. She sank to her knees and closed her eyes, hoping she was dreaming or having a hallucination, but when she opened her eyes again the wedding cake was still sitting there—three layers of pristine white frosting with delicate pink roses and a vine of ivy trailing down its side.
Surely, even May, a women desperate for her daughter to get married and produce grandkids, wouldn’t throw an emergency wedding.
Murder of a Botoxed Blonde Page 25
