Denise Swanson - Murder of a Small-Town Honey

"Sure." Skye shrugged. "What do you know about her? I never heard of Mrs. Gumtree before all this happened."

"She was just a character actress on a children's televi­sion show."

"Funny, I haven't heard about her from the kids."

"Her show, Mrs. Gumtree 's Gumdrop Lane, is only on in the Chicago area." Charlie finished his cigar and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray at his elbow. "But I did hear there was talk of syndication."

Skye shrugged, losing interest. "Do they have any idea who killed her?"

"The police chief is still trying to get in touch with her agent or someone from that TV station. It seems they all went away for the weekend."

She reached for the motor court's register. "Gee, I won­der if any of them weekended in Scumble River."

"Mike Young says it's gotta be someone from Chicago, like her publicist or personal manager. He says all those show business people are sinners and abominations in the eyes of God." Charlie slid the ledger out of her grasp and into his desk drawer.

"When did he become God's messenger? The week be­fore I left town, he was sent to prison for dealing drugs. Now he dresses like a lawyer and talks like a TV evange­list."

"You're way behind. Mike only spent eighteen months in prison. He's been out over ten years. He's hardworking and God-fearing now." Charlie sat back, thinking out loud. "Why, Mike's active in his church and makes a good living. That other stuff was just wild oats when he was a teenager."

"I really don't remember him very well. He was a friend of Vince's from high school, but they were four years ahead of me. Do you know anything about his jail time, or was it kept a secret?"

"Skye, honey, you been away too long if you think there isn't a person in Scumble River who doesn't know every last detail. There are no secrets here."

"Except for the murderer's identity," Skye said quietly. Moving closer to Charlie, she asked, "Who do you think killed her?"

"Well, now that you mention it, I thought I saw the prin­cipal of the junior high, Lloyd Stark, hanging around her dressing room yesterday. I only saw him from the back, so I didn't get a good look. Of course, I'm probably not a very good judge because I just plain don't like him." Charlie put his arm around her.

"Wonderful. That should make my job easy, since he knows you were behind my getting hired."

"He won't give you any trouble. He knows I won't put up with any bull. In fact, you could do me a little favor."

"What?" Skye crossed her arms and backed away.

"Hey, don't be like that. I get the feeling all is not right with Lloyd. He's hiding something from the school board. I want you to nose around and let me know if you hear or see anything suspicious."

She rolled her eyes. "Charlie, you're skeptical of anyone who has a different opinion than yours. I can't spy on my new principal."

"Don't think of it as spying. Think of it as being a good listener and an intense observer. Kind of like the job de­scription of a psychologist, isn't it?" Charlie walked her to the door.

Skye's smile was sickly. She had forgotten how convo­luted small-town politics could get.

Even for the end of August in Illinois, it was sweltering. During the day the sun had beat mercilessly on the blacktop of the motor court's parking lot, turning the asphalt into glue. Skye's T-shirt stuck to her back. She felt her sandals being sucked almost off her feet with each step as she walked across the empty lot toward her blue Chevy Impala with patchwork fenders and a crumpled hood. God, she hated that car—ugliest thing in three counties.

Skye noticed that the Brown Bag Liquor Store across Maryland Street was enjoying a brisk business. It hunkered on the river embankment like a malevolent toadstool.

In high school her classmates had often dared each other to go in and try to convince its owner, creepy old Fayanne Emerick, that they were old enough to buy beer. Skye never made the attempt, preferring even then not to take chances. She was still faintly uneasy about entering that building, al­ways having pictured underage teens tied to medieval torture devices in the back room.

The car's black interior was blistering hot. Before gin­gerly sliding behind the wheel, Skye pulled the legs of her shorts down as far as they would go, in order to cover the backs of her thighs, while making sure the bottom of her plain white T-shirt extended past the waistband. As always, the car started smoothly and idled perfectly. She rolled down all the windows—it had no air-conditioning—and put the transmission into drive.

/ wish the damn thing would die so I wouldn't feel like it was such a waste of money to buy a new one, Skye thought as she turned left on Maryland. Her brother's hair salon, Great Expectations, was the second building to the right after the bridge. This was the first time Skye had seen Vince since Christmas. He'd been out of town when she arrived last week, and with the Chokeberry Days excitement she hadn't been able to catch up with him over the weekend.

As Skye turned into the gravel lot, she saw two children hurling stones at the glass sign in front of the building. She got out of the car and strolled toward them.

They did not acknowledge her presence or stop their rock throwing. The boy looked to be about eight and the girl a year or so younger. Both were wearing grimy shorts, dirty tank tops, and sullen expressions.

She squatted between them. "Hi. It's pretty boring around here, isn't it?"

Glancing at her as if she were something he'd scraped off the bottom of his shoe, the boy selected the biggest stone from his pile and threw it as hard as he could. Skye heard the sound of glass cracking but could see no damage ... yet.

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?"