Denise Swanson - Murder of a Small-Town Honey

"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, and 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, / 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 com. 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."