Murder of a Small-Town Honey

by Denise Swanson

  As soon as she reached her cottage, Skye showered and changed into a pair of old denim shorts and an orange University of Illinois T-shirt. She slipped her feet into rubber thongs and went to explore the food situation. A chunk of cheese, a few slices of salami, and half a box of crackers tossed onto a tray made up her meal. She added a glass of Caffeine-Free Diet Coke and walked out to her deck. After placing her dinner on a side table, she settled into a cushioned lounge chair and tried to forget the past eight hours by gazing at the river and allowing her mind to go blank.

  As she felt the muscles in her neck and back relax, she thought how lucky she’d been to get this cottage. Discovering it was the only good thing that had happened to her since she’d found out she would have to move back to Scumble River. She’d rented it sight unseen through a newspaper ad and had been relieved that it was even better in real life than the picture and description promised.

  The owners were from Chicago. Before their messy divorce they had used the cottage as a weekend hideaway. Neither was willing to sell it, give it up, or share it, so until they could come to some compromise they were renting it. Skye hoped they wouldn’t achieve any common ground until after she could figure out a way to leave Scumble River.

  She loved the unusual octagonal shape of the house. And the deck reaching from the left of the front door, around the side and all along the back, made her feel almost like she was living in a tree house. The small center cupola acted as a skylight, drawing extra sunshine into the high-ceilinged rooms.

  The cottage’s location among the weeping willows and the elms along the riverbank allowed for the privacy Skye had missed since she’d left her family’s farm. There were few other houses on the road, and all were obscured by thick foliage.

  Skye tried to focus on the house, but her thoughts kept returning to the murder. After a few minutes she gave up and went to phone her mom. She needed to talk things over with someone, and since she’d been gone from Scumble River for over twelve years, her choices were limited.

  May answered on the first ring.

  “Mom, it’s me.” Skye pictured her mother standing in her green-and-white kitchen, looking out the big picture window at the backyard. May’s salt-and-pepper hair was cut very short to take advantage of its natural waves, and her emerald-green eyes matched Skye’s own. She would be wearing denim shorts and a T-shirt, probably one with the insignia of her beloved Cubs baseball team printed on the front.

  “Oh, thank God. I was so worried. I’ve been calling over and over ever since I heard about the murder. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Charlie’s fine. Everyone we know is fine.” Skye took a seat on a kitchen chair. This was going to be a long conversation. “Mrs. Gumtree, that children’s TV star, was the one killed.”

  May sighed. “That’s a relief. So, the person who was killed was from Chicago—nothing to do with us.”

  Skye thought about explaining that people who didn’t live in Scumble River were still worthy of their concern, but took a deep breath and instead broached the subject she had called about. “Mom, do you know any of the teachers at the high school?”

  “No. Not offhand. Why?”

  “Well, I spent Friday there visiting classrooms and observing students. I took a break around ten that morning, and Chokeberry Days was the hot topic of conversation in the teachers’ lounge.”

  “There has been a lot of fighting this year about the festival. People really took sides,” May said.

  Skye stretched the phone cord to its limit and grabbed a cookie from the jar on the counter. “Yeah, I saw that at the chokeberry jelly judging yesterday. I thought there was going to be a brawl right then and there, especially after the mayor’s death was prematurely announced.”

  “Wasn’t that awful? But I hear Eldon’s fine today—not that he didn’t get what he deserved.”

  “Huh? What’s happened to Chokeberry Days? When I was little, the whole festival started Saturday afternoon with the judging of the jams and jellies. There was a carnival that night and a parade Sunday. How did all these extra activities get started?” Skye took a bite of her Oreo.

  May’s voice indicated her disapproval. “Things really got out of hand this year. Our beloved mayor is trying to put Scumble River on the map. Every year Chokeberry Days gets bigger and more extravagant. And ends up causing more trouble. A couple of years ago, he had the bright idea of having a Harley-Davidson exhibition, so now we get hundreds of bikers tearing up the town during the festival.”

  “Let me guess—you really can’t say anything against the whole thing because of Uncle Charlie.”

  “Chokeberry Days is his baby,” May admitted.

  “True, and we all know what happens to people who aren’t nice to other people’s children.” Skye put the rest of the cookie in her mouth and crunched.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Sounds of Silence

  Monday morning, heading toward her meeting with the junior high principal, Skye felt a lump of dread settle in her stomach. Since she’d started her job a week ago, things had not been going according to plan, and she felt the whole situation slipping out of her control. The principals of both the high school and the elementary school had made it clear the week before that they had no time to talk to Skye about her duties or answer her questions.

  No one seemed very interested in having her around or even sure what to do with her. Finding out where she was supposed to work and locating the supplies she would need made her feel about as popular as a Christmas fruitcake.

  She had just met with the superintendent, who after several telephone calls between his secretary and those at the various schools, promised her an office in the junior high. If she was still employed next year, the elementary would take a turn housing her, and if the unheard-of occurred and she stayed a third year, the high school would ante up a space.

  When Skye entered his office, the junior high principal, Lloyd Stark, glanced pointedly at his watch and scowled.

  “Oh, gee, sorry to be late. The superintendent kept me longer than I expected.”

  He nodded, but his impatient expression was easy to read. He gestured to the pair of straight-back vinyl chairs across from his desk without speaking.

  Skye felt her temper push its way to the surface. In order to regain control, she let her gaze sweep the small room. It was painted a dull beige. The walls were decorated with engraved plaques and citations. No posters or paintings were present to reveal the taste of the occupant. The furniture was utilitarian—nothing stuffed or upholstered that might invite the occupant to get comfortable or stay longer than was strictly necessary. Flat brown carpet suggested that it, too, had been selected for thrift rather than style. And the only light glared from the ceiling fixture’s fluorescent bulb.

  As she sat, Skye slowly arranged her purse and briefcase by her feet and allowed herself to examine the man behind the desk. Lloyd looked more like a used-car salesman than an educator. She had heard that he had been the principal of Scumble River Junior High School for nine years. Before that, he was a P.E. teacher and coach at the high school for ten years. She guessed that although Lloyd was not originally from Scumble River, over his nineteen-year tenure he would have become well acquainted with its foibles, especially nepotism.

  One of her Denison cousins worked as a custodian at the high school and had told her that Lloyd and the other principals had held a private conference after the July school board meeting, the meeting at which it was decided to hire Skye as the new psychologist without even a token interview or reference check.

  According to Kenny, none of the principals was happy about hiring her, but all agreed they would reserve judgment and not hold her relationship with the school board president, Charlie Patukas, against her.

  Skye continued to study Lloyd. He did not match his cheaply furnished office. Dressed in an expensive blue pin-striped suit, monogrammed white broadcloth shirt, handmade silk necktie, and highly polished black tasseled kilties, he wore no we
dding band, but there was a large picture on his desk, framed in heavy gold leaf, of a drab woman and three ordinary-looking children.

  Finally, since it appeared that Lloyd was not about to begin their meeting, Skye leaned forward and extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Skye Denison, the new psychologist.”

  “Yes, I had figured that out.” Lloyd held her hand for a fraction of a second too long, and then they sat without saying anything further. His flat black eyes exactly matched his slicked-back black hair, which was such an unvarying color that it had to be dyed.

  As the silence lengthened and Lloyd showed no indication of talking, Skye sat back in the chair and crossed her legs. Although she had been taught to wait, because often the most interesting revelations came when people grew uncomfortable with silence, waiting was still extremely difficult for her.

  Lloyd rearranged the objects on the desktop, aligning the blotter carefully with the edge of the desk. Turning to a fresh page on his legal pad and selecting the most perfectly sharpened of his pencils, he finally looked at Skye. “I do not run a democracy. We do not vote on issues. I solicit opinions, but make the final decisions myself. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Skye struggled to remain composed, while allowing herself the time she needed to formulate a suitable response. “So you’re saying it’s important to you to feel in control of the school you are responsible for?”

  A puzzled look crossed Lloyd’s face. “Well, yes, I guess that’s what I am saying.”

  Skye found herself able to read Lloyd’s thoughts as he realized that this discussion was not progressing in the manner he had envisioned. He began to feel uncomfortable, and she saw him struggle to regain control of the conversation, floundering as he persisted, “Is that a situation you can live with?”

  Concentrating on not losing her cool, Skye leaned forward. “You want to know if I’m going to respect your authority, right?”

  “Well, yes, that’s one way of putting it. Are you?” he insisted.

  “Of course, I will back you in any matter that is not against my professional ethics.” Skye gave him an insincere, yet dazzling smile. “But I’m sure you would never suggest anything less.”

  Lloyd seemed flustered, and sat silently for some time before continuing. “Let me give you a brief summary of my school. We have one special education teacher, and she has two assistants. There is a school nurse and speech pathologist whom we share with the rest of the district. We do not currently have a social worker, so with the addition of you, me, and an occasional visit from the representative from our co-op, that pretty much makes up our PPS Team.”

  “When does the Pupil Personnel Services Team meet?”

  “Every other Tuesday, starting tomorrow, at eleven-thirty.”

  “What special education cooperative are we with?”

  “StanCoCo.”

  “And that stands for . . . ?”

  “Stanley County Cooperative. Any more questions?” Lloyd’s tone made it clear that he found her queries tiresome.

  Ignoring this, Skye proceeded, taking out a pad and pencil. “How do we handle fulfilling the components of a case study evaluation without a social worker to do the social history? How does all the counseling get done?”

  “We don’t need a social worker to do a social history. What we’ve done in the past is have the nurse address the medical segments and the psychologist deal with the adaptive behavior, family structure, and so forth.”

  Skye frowned, thinking, I will definitely have to take a look at the Illinois rules and regulations to see if this is legal. I’d also better check with the Illinois School Psychologists Association as to whether it’s ethical. And, if it is, I’d better brush up on taking social histories really soon.

  Lloyd was looking at Skye as if he expected to be praised for his resourcefulness. “Oh, how clever,” she said. “Maybe we can talk more about this later.”

  Without warning Lloyd changed the subject. “You were the one who found that body yesterday, right?”

  Nodding, Skye sat straighter, wondering where this was leading.

  “It must have been extremely frightening. You probably didn’t have a chance to notice much . . .” Lloyd’s voice trailed off, encouraging her to fill in the details.

  She knew he wanted something, but she couldn’t imagine what. “No, I was in and out in a couple of minutes. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Just curious. I didn’t even know the woman, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Oh, you sounded like maybe you had a specific question in mind.”

  He stood abruptly and walked to the door without commenting. “Why don’t I take you to meet some of the team?”

  He was halfway through the main office before Skye could gather her belongings and follow him. Keeping an eye on his retreating figure, she hurried after him. Lloyd was of medium height and build, but he moved as if his legs were as long as a basketball player’s. Skye didn’t catch up until he was already most of the way down the central hall.

  Skye was wearing the coolest professional clothes she owned, a short-sleeved lilac linen shirtdress with matching high-heeled pumps. Midwestern style valued matching accessories, but after trying, without success, to keep up with Lloyd’s quick pace on the highly polished and slippery linoleum, she immediately resolved to buy lower-heeled shoes—no matter what the color.

  She rounded a corner in time to see Lloyd enter a classroom near the back of the building. Judging from its location, she knew without asking that it was the special education room. Such classrooms were usually as far away from the front door as the structure of the school allowed.

  Upon entering, Skye spotted Lloyd with a woman in her thirties. She was much taller than average and cadaverously thin. When she held out her hand for Skye to shake, her nails were bitten so short they looked raw. Her grip was listless.

  The room was painted bile-green and held only a blackboard, a teacher’s desk, and twelve student work stations, the type where the chair and table area are welded together. It was obvious that they had interrupted the teacher as she was attempting to liven up the room by putting various posters and pictures on the walls.

  Lloyd introduced them. “Darleen, this is our new psychologist, Skye Denison. Skye, this is our special education teacher, Darleen Boyd. She’s married to the police chief.”

  Skye checked Darleen’s reaction to Lloyd’s having gratuitously announced her husband’s occupation. Even by Scumble River standards his remark had been a bit sexist. Darleen remained impassive. Her short baby-doll dress revealed twiglike arms and legs. No one spoke.

  Searching for something polite to say, Skye settled at last on, “How nice. My mom works as a police dispatcher.”

  Before Darleen could reply, Lloyd broke in. “Where are your assistants?”

  “They’re with the kids in their mainstream classes. Remember, last year the PPS team decided to put the aides in regular classes to help the special ed kids?” She nervously smoothed her hair, which was a dull brown and cut as if a bowl had been placed on her head for a pattern.

  “How about the nurse and the speech therapist? Surely they’re not in the classrooms too? They should be around.” Lloyd scanned the room as if the people he sought might be hiding behind the desks.

  “Abby’s in the health room, but I haven’t seen Belle. She’s probably at the elementary school.” Darleen studied the poster she had just hung on the wall, not meeting Lloyd’s eyes.

  Turning to Skye, Lloyd asked in an affronted tone, “Did you meet Belle Whitney, the speech and language therapist, at the elementary school when you were there earlier?”

  “Why, no, I spoke with the principal on Thursday, and she gave me a list of meetings. She ran out of time before she had a chance to show me around the school or introduce any of the faculty or staff.”

  Lloyd nodded in satisfaction. “Let’s press on, then. At least I can introduce you to the nurse.”

  “Could you show me where my office is, too?�
�

  “It’s on the way.” A line appeared between Lloyd’s eyebrows.

  Skye moved closer to Darleen. “It was nice meeting you. Would it be convenient for me to come back this afternoon so we could discuss your program and how my services might fit in with it?”

  Looking uneasily at Lloyd, Darleen’s hazel eyes bulged alarmingly. “Sure. I’ll be here until four. We can talk then. We don’t want to keep Mr. Stark waiting.”

  As Skye followed Lloyd back toward the front of the school, she pondered Darleen’s attitude. She appeared much more subservient, even fearful, than other special education teachers Skye had met.

  Skye was convinced that the room Lloyd indicated as her office had started life as a janitor’s closet. Its windowless walls were painted an egg-yolk yellow, and the smell of ammonia made her sneeze when she pushed open the door. A battered desk and a single metal folding chair crowded the small room.

  Turning to Lloyd, who was hovering outside the doorway, Skye said, “I don’t see any secure area for confidential files. I’ll need a locking file cabinet.”

  He scowled. “I suppose you’ll have a whole list of things you absolutely have to have. Just remember we aren’t a rich district like the one you came from.”

  Nodding, Skye said, “I understand, but I do need a place where files can be kept locked up.” She aimed the next suggestion at his ego. “Maybe we could put them in your office. Of course, I’ll need a key.”

  “My office is not a storage facility. I’ll make sure you get a cabinet.” Lloyd took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the sweat that had suddenly appeared on his brow.

  The health room was located beside the main office, but with a separate entrance. It was very small, with just enough room for a brown vinyl cot, a locked cabinet, a desk, and a chair.

  Lloyd was standing in the doorway tapping his foot when Skye caught up to him. He moved to one side and gestured for her to go in. “Abby, this is Skye Denison, our new school psychologist. Skye, this is Abby Fleming, our district’s school nurse.”