Denise Swanson - Murder of a Small-Town Honey

CHAPTER 2

Don't Rain on My Parade

Skye stood trapped on the telephone in her kitchen. She was still dressed in the perspiration-soaked clothes she had worn to attend Mass that Sunday morning. No air-conditioning for Saint Francis Church. Let the Protestants have their creature comforts, the Catholics sweated for Jesus.

The mayor's "death" and miraculous recovery had been the talk of the congregation. The official story was that he had seen someone messing around the beer tent and gone to check things out. When he tried to tap one of the kegs, he received an electrical shock. An open current had been rigged to the metal handle. Although Mayor Clapp had briefly stopped breathing, he appeared to be fully rejuve­nated today. Some people wondered out loud why he had been trying to open the beer—one of the most vocal had been the owner of the liquor store.

But Skye's caller wasn't interested in Mayor Clapp's health. Easing her grip on the telephone receiver, she tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. "Yes, Uncle Charlie. Mom dropped off the T-shirt, but I told you I'm not doing it."

Charlie Patukas wasn't really her uncle, but he was a close friend of the family, and godfather to both her and her brother, Vince. More important, he was grand marshal of Scumble River's Chokeberry Days parade and a man not used to being argued with, as his irritated tone clearly indi-

cated. "I'm counting on you, Skye. The whole town is counting on you."

"I did my duty yesterday. Judging the chokeberry jelly contest was awful enough." She twisted her arm behind her back, trying to reach her zipper, and listened to the silence emanating from the receiver. "Isn't there anyone else who can do it?"

His tone grew silky. "There's no one that I trust, or that owes me her brand-new job."

"You know how grateful I am. Thank you again for making sure they didn't look too deeply into my employ­ment history. Insubordination is hard to explain." She mopped the sweat from her forehead with a paper towel. Having a godfather who was president of the school board had its uses.

"Good. Saying 'thank you' is nice. Showing your appre­ciation is nicer." Charlie's satisfied grin could be detected over the phone lines.

"Okay, I give up. You got me. I'll be there in half an hour." In the past year Skye had become good at admitting defeat.

Hanging up the phone, she stomped into the bathroom. The humidity had turned her long chestnut hair into a mass of unmanageable curls, which she swept into an elastic band. She jammed a baseball cap on her head and flipped her newly created ponytail out the back opening.

The Weather Channel had predicted temperatures in ex­cess of ninety degrees, and by the way the sunlight had shimmered on the parked cars when she'd driven home from church, she guessed it was already well over that mark. The heat did not improve her mood, and as she changed into navy shorts, she berated herself for promising to help Charlie baby-sit the parade participants.

For some reason she'd been having trouble saying no to people since she'd moved back to Scumble River. Did she feel guilty for all the nasty things she'd said about the

town as a teenager, or was she just tired of fighting the system?

Skye put on a freshly washed and ironed white cotton blouse. As she began to button it, her glance strayed to the fashion monstrosity thrown across her bed. Sighing, she re­luctantly shrugged out of the top and donned the official Ghokeberry Days T-shirt. The front of the shirt featured a picture of Mrs. Gumtree, star of Mrs. Gumtree 's Gumdrop _ Lane, a children's TV show produced in Chicago. Printed on the back was:

SCUMBLE RIVER CHOKEBERRY DAYS

High School Band Competition—Thursday, August 27

August 28, 29 & 30

Cow Chip Bingo

Fish Fry

Carnival

Arts & Crafts

Beer Tent Go-Kart Racing

Only people wearing this shirt were to be allowed "backstage" at the parade, but it was a hideous pink, sup­posedly the same shade as chokeberry juice, and Skye felt ridiculous in it. Small comfort that the men forced to wear the shirt would feel even more ludicrous.

Skye had barely buckled her seat belt and turned on the car radio before she arrived at the parade's staging area. Nothing in Scumble River was farther than a five-minute drive. It was a small farming community grouped around a downtown that lacked adequate parking space. Most of the larger businesses had long since moved to the outskirts in search of asphalt. The floats, bands, and official cars were meeting in the block-long parking lot shared by McDon­ald's, Walters' Supermarket, and the Ace Hardware store at the edge of the city limits.

The parade's route was all of a mile and a half long, fol­lowing the two main streets that bisected Scumble River. Its finish line was at the other side of town near the railroad tracks and the river, where another large parking lot could hold all the participants.

Skye pulled her car into a narrow spot between a bat­tered brown truck with a wire hanger stuck into the space where an antenna should have been and a bright red motor­cycle. After maneuvering her way out of the tight space be­tween her door and the other vehicle, she began to look for Charlie.

Squeezing between vehicles and people, she came to a float representing the high school's football team, the Scumble River Scorpions. It was done all in red with a huge black scorpion crouched in the center. A blood-like substance dripped from its stinger onto the pros­trate dummy dressed in a rival football team's uniform. Several football players and cheerleaders were adding finishing touches to the gore, but there was no sign of Charlie.

An equestrian group was gathered off to the side, the riders grooming their massive mounts. The horses' coats gleamed brightly: black, white, brown, and roan. The peo­ple themselves sparkled with rhinestones and glitter.

Her next stop was a white convertible on loan from the Scumble River Lincoln-Mercury dealership. Apparently Mayor Clapp, the owner of that business, was taking no chances on anyone forgetting that his company had pro­vided the car, as it had huge placards on both front doors. Mrs. Gumtree would ride in solitary splendor in the back­seat.

Close by, a large motor coach acted as the TV star's dressing room. It was on loan from Clay Center's RV dealer, as its large billboard pointed out.

Another sign, this one hand-lettered, stated:

DO NOT DISTURB

NO AUTOGRAPHS

ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ADMITTED

THIS MEANS YOU!

Skye smiled to herself as she continued her search for Charlie. She hoped the trailer had good soundproofing and a sturdy lock because no sissy sign would keep out the citi­zenry of Scumble River if they took it into their heads to visit Mrs. Gumtree before the parade.

After wending her way past the high school band, a troop of clowns, and the Lions Club float, Skye's T-shirt was sticking to her back and her feet were beginning to burn. She could smell the aroma of hamburgers coming from the nearby McDonald's. Her stomach growled, re­minding her that she hadn't had anything to eat since dinner the night before. I've had it. If I don't find Charlie in the next ten seconds, I'm going back to my car and he can find me if he wants my help so badly.

Taking a left at the next float, Skye began to head back toward the parking area. She heard Charlie before she spot­ted him. He was yelling at Fayanne Emerick, the owner of the liquor store across the street from his motor court.

Today Fayanne was dressed in the official Chokebeny Days T-shirt, two sizes too small, and red stretch pants. To Skye, she looked like a raw sausage oozing out of its cas­ing. Fayanne's mouth was puckered tighter than the shrink wrap on a package of meat and her X-ray eyes looked as if they could bore a hole into Charlie's skull. Fayanne was poking him in the chest with her right index finger.