Denise Swanson - Murder of a Small-Town Honey

Skye shook her head. It felt odd to be described as suc­cessful. True, she had done well at the University of Illi­nois—only a hundred miles away from Scumble River, but light-years from it in terms of lifestyle.

But her stint in the Peace Corps was not the noble sacri­fice that Abby described. Instead it had been a place to hide when she couldn't face coming home to Scumble River and found there were no jobs for someone with a bachelor's de­gree in psychology. And graduate school had been two years of being made to feel never quite good enough.

This was followed by a year of internship—something akin to being an indentured servant. Not to mention being fired from her first job for insubordination and being jilted shortly afterward by a fiance who was more in love with his own social standing than with her.

"My brother thinks of himself as unsuccessful?" Skye allowed herself to be led back to the cot. "I had no idea. I'm sure a great psychologist," she said sarcastically. "I don't even know what my own brother is thinking."

"Vince is hard to read. He turns on the charm if he thinks you're getting too close. Besides, how often have you seen him since you moved away?"

"You're right. A lot of things seem to have changed in the twelve years I've been gone. Maybe it's a good thing I came back after all."

CHAPTER 6

Suspicious Minds

Later that afternoon, the door to Skye's office banged open and Lloyd entered the room. "Well, you certainly have managed to make yourself comfortable. I suppose you'll want a couch and your own coffee machine next." He examined the desk, chair, and file cabinet closely. "None of our other psychologists had an office to them­selves. They took whatever room wasn't in use when they stopped by."

Skye bit her tongue, counted to twenty, and breathed deeply—all the while trying to refrain from explaining that perhaps that was one of the reasons they had such trouble keeping support staff, such as social workers and psycholo­gists.

Instead she made herself smile. "Yes, I want to thank you for all your help. The other schools seemed unable to assist me." She was very proud of herself when no trace of sarcasm leaked out.

Lloyd puffed out his chest. "I'm the one to see in this district if you need something. Those other two principals don't have the influence I have. The superintendent and I are fishing buddies, you know." He completely disregarded the fact that he had done nothing. The secretaries had arranged everything.

Once Lloyd left, Skye spent some time organizing the confidential special education files she had found. The search had turned out to be more like a scavenger hunt than

the simple task she was expecting. After being directed to at least ten different locations, she finally located the fold­ers in the basement next to the cleaning supplies. They were moist and smelled like a mixture of mold, pine scent, and lemon.

Taking the records from their damp cardboard boxes, Skye put them into her new file cabinet, stopping now and then to separate pages that were sticking together. They completely filled one drawer and part of the second. She didn't attempt to read them, but was content with putting them into some recognizable order... like alphabetical.

After an hour of sorting out the records of the students currently enrolled in the Scumble River Junior High special education program, she looked at her watch and realized she hadn't been back to talk to Darleen. She stuffed the re­maining folders into the cabinet, locked it, and hurried to the special ed room. She arrived just in time to find Darleen locking the door.

Skye apologized, and they made another appointment, for the next day during Darleen's planning period. Darleen seemed relieved that she didn't have to talk to Skye that day after all.

It was nearly five that afternoon, and Skye had finished up at school only half an hour ago. She rested her hip casu­ally against the registration desk of the Up A Lazy River Motor Court and scanned the small office, noting that little had changed in the years she'd been away. The walls were still painted a drab brown, the desktop was still scarred and in need of refinishing, and the only chair remained occu­pied by her honorary Uncle Charlie, who was busy barking orders into the phone.

When she had first arrived, Charlie's gray color and rapid breathing had scared her. He'd just been ending a telephone call when Skye walked through the door, and she heard something about paying someone some money by

Friday. She had tried to ask what was going on, but the phone rang again, and Charlie had been on one call or an­other ever since.

At least his color was better and he seemed more like his usual self—aggravated, headed toward infuriated, possibly not stopping until he hit fully enraged. "We are not refund­ing the parade entrants' fees. Check the contract the carni­val people signed. No refunds for an act of God." He listened for a few seconds. "And I say murder is covered under that clause."

The window air conditioner labored in an attempt to keep the tiny room cool. When Skye had driven past the Scumble River First National Bank, the thermometer read ninety-one degrees. The humidity hung like used plastic wrap.

Skye dug into her purse until she found a coated rubber band. She gathered her hair into a thick ponytail and nar­rowed her green eyes against the smoke from Charlie's cigar. Tapping her fingernails on the counter, she waited for him to hang up.

He pounded on the desk and yelled, "Then check with your goddamn lawyer! Why in the hell did you call me in the first place?"

Charlie banged down the phone and ran sausagelike fin­gers through his thick white hair, then heaved himself out of the battered wooden swivel chair and swooped Skye into a bear hug.

Intense blue eyes under bushy white brows scrutinized her face. "Are you okay with what happened yesterday? Everyone treating you right? Anyone bothering you, just let me know, and I'll take care of them. Nobody better mess with my goddaughter."

She was breathless, but returned his hug. "Uncle Char­lie, you haven't changed a bit. I'm fine. They're all being nice to me. I just wanted to thank you again. I don't know what I'd have done without this job."

Releasing her, he settled back down into the creaking chair. "We should thank you. We've been trying to hire a school psychologist since the middle of last year. The last one we had up and quit in November. Said we weren't pay­ing enough for the amount of problems he had to deal with. And you know we've never been able to keep a social worker—they say we're too primitive."

Skye frowned. "What kind of problems was he referring to?"

"We never could figure that out. Sure, we've got our share of troubles. Usually at least one suicide or drowning a year, child abuse, family feuds... but that goes on every­where, right?"

Her one year of experience had ended with her being fired, so she was hardly an expert on what was usual. Not wanting to talk about her last job, Skye answered evasively, "Guess I'll find out soon enough. Maybe being from town will help."

Sighing, she leaned her forearms against the desk. "So, tell me all the gossip. What's this about Mrs. Gumtree re­ally being only in her thirties?"

"Everybody is sure talking about this murder, but no one is saying anything. It was a terrible thing, you finding her like that. We don't want anyone thinking that you're a wit­ness or anything, so you make sure everyone knows you didn't see a thing when you were in that trailer. You didn't see anything, right?"

"Nope. But everyone sure is interested in what I didn't see."

"Good. You make sure you tell everyone you didn't see anything and you don't know anything." Charlie shook his finger in her face.