Murder of a Small-Town Honey

by Denise Swanson

  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 fiancé?” 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 Iona.” 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 Iona’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.”

  Vince continued talking as he started to cut her hair. “I’m glad you stopped by. I wanted to ask you about double-dating with Abby and me on Wednesday.”

  “I don’t know. She and I didn’t get off to a very good start.”

  “Oh, I forgot. Did she give you the silent treatment?”
Vince began snipping off pieces of hair.

  “Yes. Why didn’t you just tell me how you felt? I never knew you thought of me as Miss Perfect, until Abby explained about you feeling unsuccessful around me.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  Skye looked him in the eye via the mirror. “It sure seemed like one to me. Can’t we talk about it?”

  Shrugging, Vince looked away. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  She sighed and changed the subject. “This is the longest you’ve dated anyone since that awful girl in high school. What was her name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Are you serious about Abby?”

  “Maybe, if other things work out.” Vince finished cutting and took out the blow-dryer.

  “I’m really happy for you. I’d sure like to start over with Abby, but who would make up the fourth in this little outing?” Skye gazed up at him warily.

  “For crying out loud! It’s only dinner and a movie in Joliet, not a lifetime commitment.”

  “True, but I still would like to know who I’ll be sharing a backseat with.”

  “He’s a good friend of mine. You probably remember him. Mike Young.”

  “I saw him at the chokeberry jelly judging last Saturday. He sure hates Chokeberry Days.” Skye raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, he’s pretty religious now. Chokeberry Days probably reminds him of his wild youth.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “How interesting. He’s your age, right?”

  Vince nodded.

  “Has he ever been married?”

  Shaking his head, he switched off the dryer and picked up the curling iron.

  Skye pounced. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing. Boy, try to do you a favor and this is the thanks I get.” Vince shook his head in disgust. “You have such a suspicious mind.”

  “That’s one drawback of being a psychologist,” Skye conceded. “You’re always looking for what’s beneath the surface.”

  “So, are you going out with us or not?”

  “Against my better judgment, I’ll say yes. I’ve learned that anything or anyone that sounds too good to be true usually is.”

  “Mike’s a great guy. He’s good-looking, and he has his own business.” Vince attempted to sound straightforward but failed.

  “Look, I said I’d go out with him.” Skye hesitated as an unwelcome thought occurred to her. “Have you asked him yet if he wants to go out with me?”

  “Yep, it’s all set. We’ll swing by and pick up Mike first, then be at your place about six. That should give you plenty of time. You school people get off work around three, right?”

  “Yeah, right,” she said sarcastically. “I finally found all the files today. It looks like no one has done anything since the last psychologist left a year ago November. I’ll be lucky to get out by five.”

  He finished curling Skye’s hair, brushed her off, and folded the cape.

  She jumped out of the chair and walked over to the nail polish display. “You should get a manicurist in here. I’d love to get my nails done.”

  “Not everyone can afford to indulge all their whims like you.”

  “Would I still be driving the Impala-from-Hell if I indulged my every whim?”

  Vince busied himself sweeping up the curls of hair on the floor.

  Skye made her selection, Springtime Lilac, and walked to the counter. “How much?”

  Vince folded his arms. “I can’t charge my sister.”

  “I won’t come here if you don’t let me pay. Besides, I cost you a customer.”

  He balked, then reluctantly keyed the cash register. “Nineteen ninety-eight.”

  Skye dug her wallet out of the bottom of her canvas tote. She gave him a twenty and joked, “Keep the change.”

  With a flourish Vince took two pennies from the cash register and put them in his pants pocket. “Gee, Sis, you’re too generous.”

  “Any time. When’s your next appointment?”

  “In about five minutes. I try to book them as close together as possible without making people wait too long.”

  Skye paused with her hand on the door. “Is there anything wrong, Vince? I mean, I’m surprised you had to let the receptionist and stylist go. I thought you did a pretty good business.”

  “There is something else I wanted to talk to you about, if you have a couple of minutes.”

  “Sure, let’s sit down. You must be on your feet all day.” She headed to the waiting area.

  “Let’s sit in the back by the shampoo bowls. It’s kind of personal.”

  After they settled themselves, Vince hesitated.

  In her best counselor mode, Skye leaned forward with her hands held loosely on her lap. “You can tell me anything. It won’t go any farther than this room.”

  “I’m short on money this month. Some extra expenses came up that I wasn’t expecting, and I’m not going to be able to make the mortgage. Could you lend me fifteen hundred dollars? I won’t be able to pay it back for a while.” Vince didn’t pause for breath.

  Before she could reply, Vince interrupted her thoughts. “You probably don’t have much money right now, but I can’t ask Mom and Dad. You know the answer I’d get from them.”

  She nodded. “How about Uncle Charlie?”

  “He doesn’t have the cash either. This hasn’t been a good year for the motor court.”

  “That’s odd. Even if the motor court isn’t doing too well, I always had the impression that Uncle Charlie had money from other investments.”

  “Me, too. But when I asked, he said he couldn’t help me, he didn’t have that kind of cash. What was I going to do—call him a liar?” He slumped back in his chair.

  “Gee, I’m sorry, Vince, but I’m broke. My salary last year barely covered my living expenses. Would I be back in Scumble River if I had any cash?”

  They sat in silence for a while, each trying to figure a way to get the money.

  Finally Skye stood up. “I have an idea, but I don’t know if it will work and I really hate to do it.”

  Vince looked at her imploringly. “I’m going to lose the shop if I can’t meet the mortgage.”

  “Well, the only thing I have that’s really worth anything is Grandma Leofanti’s emerald ring. I could try to get a loan with it as collateral.”

  He buried his head in his hands. His heavily muscled chest heaved as he took a deep breath. “I’m quite a big brother, aren’t I? Maybe next time I’ll try stealing candy from a baby.”

  “Don’t ever be ashamed to ask for help,” Skye rushed to reassure him. “I only wish I had it to give. I’ll try to find out by Wednesday if I can get a loan. Will that be too late?”

  “If the answer is yes, it will be just in time. If the answer is no, time doesn’t matter.”

  CHAPTER 7

  If You Could Read My Mind

  It was nearly six that evening when Skye walked out of Vince’s salon and headed toward her parents’ house. She drove back down Maryland Street, and as she approached the Basin Street crossroad the signal turned red.

  “The only stoplight in town, and I never manage to catch it on green,” Skye grumbled to herself.

  Looking down Scumble River’s main drag, Skye noted an unfamiliar sign, Young at Heart Photography. She figured it must be Mike Young’s studio—the one her aunt had mentioned Saturday.

  Up and down the street were banners promoting the now-passed Chokeberry Days, but something had been added since they were originally hung. Each pennant had been hand-painted with a red circle and a line bisecting it, the international sign for no.

  The light changed and she drove on, easing around the sharp curve after Webster Drive. She turned right onto County Line Road. Her parents’ farm was about a mile east off the paved road.

  Skye could hardly believe she was back. She had spent her whole adult life putting distance between herself and Scumble River. She went so far as to join the Peace Corps after graduating from college, a
nd spent four years in Dominica, a tiny island in the Caribbean. But a single stubborn decision and all her plans were wiped out. It had taken only one long, emotional call home to get her reestablished here in town. Mothers sometimes worked in mysterious ways.

  Smiling ruefully, she mused, I was certainly eager enough to come home this time. Well, ready or not, I’m back where I started. At least my parents are happy I’m here.

  The tires crunching the white pea gravel on her parents’ well-tended lane interrupted her thoughts. Her father, Jed, was on his riding mower finishing up their acre of grass. When he spotted Skye he took off his blue-and-white polka-dotted cap and waved it in the air, revealing a steel-gray crew cut, faded brown eyes, and a tanned, leathery face.

  On the step near the back patio, she noticed her mother’s concrete goose dressed in a bikini with sunglasses perched on its beak and a bow on top of its head. It was usually attired in holiday garb, but with the Fourth of July long past and Halloween nearly two months away, this must have been the best her mom could do. Skye quickly checked out the trio of plaster deer to make sure they weren’t similarly costumed.

  Returning her father’s wave, she went in the back door of the red-brick ranch-style house. The large kitchen was bisected by a counter edged with two stools. Its pristine celery-colored walls looked as if they’d been painted just that morning, and the matching linoleum glistened with a fresh coat of wax.

  Her mother, May, stood at the sink, cleaning sweet corn. First she tore off the outer husks, then scrubbed the corn silk away with a vegetable brush. Despite her fifty-five years and short stature, May’s athletic build reminded Skye of the cheerleader her mother once was. The few pounds she had gained since high school did not detract from this image.

  The first words out of her mother’s mouth were, “Hope you’re hungry. Supper’s almost ready.” To May, food equaled love, and no further words of affection needed to be spoken.

  Skye noted the time on the green-and-white-flowered wall clock—five minutes after six. “Isn’t it a little late for you guys to be eating dinner?”

  “Dad’s been up since five-thirty. He’s already cut Grandma Leofanti’s grass, put new seat covers on the pickup, and will be finishing our lawn in a few minutes. I dispatched from eleven to seven last night at the police station, then walked my three miles with Hester and Maggie, cleaned up the house, put up twelve quarts of corn, and slept this afternoon. You know we’re busy in the summer. We hardly have time to eat.”