Denise Swanson - Murder of a Small-Town Honey

Skye thought to herself, If you really want to know about someone, read their yearbook.

CHAPTER 19

It's My Party

Before nine-thirty Sunday morning, Skye had already tried on seven outfits and completely redone her hair twice. It would have been easier to choose what to wear if she'd known where they were going. If it was someplace local, casual attire would be fine, but if they were going into Chicago, she needed to dress for a city crowd. Glanc­ing at the clock, Skye noted it was now one minute to ten. Time to fish or cut bait, as her dad would say.

She finally settled on what she hoped was a sensible compromise, another shorts suit, this one in mint green. Its vestlike top had French knot buttons, a weskit hem, and side slits. The shorts were full-cut with inverted pleats that gave them the illusion of a skirt.

While giving herself one last spritz of Chanel, she heard the doorbell ring. She walked swiftly through her bedroom and paused in the center of the great room.

Saturday night, after Mass, she'd spent lugging the rest of her belongings from her parents' garage to her cottage and finishing the unpacking. The room now contained a futon-type sofa that faced the sliding glass doors leading to the deck. Two camp chairs faced the couch, with an old wooden trunk that doubled as a coffee table in front of it. The shelves situated between the doors were full of books, pictures, and souvenirs.

It wasn't exactly the Ritz Carlton, but it was a vast im­provement from her graduate school dorm room or the

wooden shack of her Peace Corps days. She had put a tray containing a carafe of coffee, mugs, spoons, napkins, and a sugar and creamer on the trunk. Tiny Danish pastries were arranged on a separate plate.

When Skye opened the door, she caught her breath. Simon was wearing a straw fedora with a green band, a beige short-sleeved oxford-cloth shirt with a button-down collar, and pleated Dockers in an olive check. The penny loafers on his feet looked newly polished.

Beneath the brim of his hat, Skye saw, his short auburn hair had a fresh barber line. His features hinted at elegance and refinement. In his hand he held a dozen yellow roses.

Finding it hard to speak, Skye managed only, "Hi. Please come in."

Simon walked into the foyer, removed his hat, and handed her the bouquet. "I thought these might make up for the Diet Coke."

"Wow, my favorite. What do I get for the parking space and the place in line?" Her best defense when faced with intense emotion had always been humor.

He smiled. "Won't it be interesting to find out?"

This was a man who could definitely become a problem. Unlike the boys Skye had dated in college or the other stu­dents at grad school, Simon had poise and polish. A danger­ous combination. The same treacherous savoir-faire her ex-fiance had possessed in abundance. Why was she at­tracted to this kind of man? A lump formed in her throat. They only brought her pain.

Skye forced herself to speak. "I'll get a vase. You can put your hat on the hall table. Please make yourself com­fortable." Skye gestured him into the great room.

When she came back with the flowers in their hastily improvised vase, a plastic pitcher, Simon was sitting on the sofa leafing through a magazine.

Coming closer, she noticed it was the copy of Better

Homes and Gardens in which her mother had concealed the police report—the report she had not yet removed.

Trying to distract him before he came to those pages, Skye hurriedly placed the roses on a shelf and sat down be­side him. "Would you like a cup of coffee before we leave?"

As he put the magazine down, a sheet of computer paper slid to the floor. Skye and Simon reached for it simultane­ously. He won.

He glanced down while handing it to Skye and stopped abruptly. "How did you get this?"

"That's none of your business."

"This looks like an official police report. As an officer of the court, it certainly is my business." Simon's expression was implacable.

Skye struggled to answer him without whining, which she knew was not an attractive trait. "Look, I'm trying to figure out who killed Honey Adair."

"Isn't that the police department's job?"

"Maybe, but they're doing an extremely poor job of it. Chief Boyd is convinced my brother is the culprit, and he refuses to look for any other evidence."

Simon put the paper down and absentmindedly poured himself a cup of coffee. "I know it's hard to think of your sibling being involved in a murder, but facts are facts."

"That's just it. He's not looking at all the facts." Skye took the opportunity to surreptitiously push the offending page under a pile of other magazines.

"What do you mean? And hiding it is not going to stop me from wanting to know how you got it." Simon sipped his coffee and reached for a Danish.

Skye held on to her temper, though with difficulty. She hated losing control of a situation. "I've found six other people who had motive and opportunity to kill Honey."

"Who?" Simon asked, setting his cup in its saucer with a clink.

After Skye listed her suspects and explained why and how each of them could be the murderer, Simon sat without speaking.

Nervously nibbling on a pastry, she waited.

"I see your point," he conceded grudgingly, "but I think what you're doing could be very risky. And you still haven't told me how you got hold of that document."

Getting up, she plucked a rose from the pitcher and twirled it between her fingers. "I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to reveal my source."

"Okay, I promise."

"Actually, you could figure it out pretty easily just by asking around," Skye said, excusing her lack of discretion. "My mother is a police dispatcher." Skye watched him carefully as she revealed this information.

Simon smiled as if in relief. "That explains it. I thought maybe you had a relationship with one of the cops, or even Wally."

"Chief Boyd is a married man." Skye put the blossom back in the vase.

"True, but women seem to find him attractive, and he appears to be quite fond of you." Simon stood up and straightened the crease in his trousers. "Are you ready to go? Our reservation is for one o'clock."

He followed her into the hall, where she picked up her purse. "If Wally's so devoted to me, why is he after my brother?"

Brunch was wonderful. They drove to Chicago and ate at Cite, a revolving restaurant on top of Lake Point Tower. It offered views of both the skyline and Lake Michigan. Their conversation was animated, with no awkward pauses or uncomfortable silences. The subject of murder was not raised again.

They talked of travel—where they'd been and where they'd like to go. Both confessed to being addicted to

books and chocolate. Best of all, Simon revealed himself to be a bridge player.

Sitting back, Skye watched a seagull swoop and dive over the water. "Do you play in a club?" she asked.

"No, unfortunately I haven't been able to locate one in the area. Friends in the city occasionally call me to fill in when one of their group members can't make it, but it's a long drive." Simon took a last swallow of coffee and pushed the cup away. "How about you?"

"Nope. I played all the time in grad school, but I don't know anyone in Scumble River who plays."

"Too bad. Maybe we can find another couple and teach them."

So we're a couple. Skye wasn't sure how she felt about that. Out loud she said, "That would be fun."

The waiter brought over the check in its leather folder and put it on the table. Simon took out his wallet and se­lected a credit card.

She tried to stop herself, but she couldn't resist an at­tempt to peek at how much the meal had cost him. But he was too smooth for her to catch a glimp.se.