Denise Swanson - Murder of a Small-Town Honey

May grabbed Jed's arm. "Hurry. We've got to get to the station."

Before Jed could react, Skye put a hand on both their shoulders. "Loretta said for us not to go there."

"Why not?" May twitched her shoulder anxiously.

"She said they were taking him to Laurel and we wouldn't be allowed to see him there, either."

"We have to be there for him. We can at least talk to Loretta." May turned to Jed.

"I think we should go to the cemetery and then to the luncheon. There's nothing we can do for Vince right now, and Charlie hasn't got anyone else." Skye also looked to her father.

Jed started the car and backed out, getting in line behind the last vehicle in the procession. "Right now we can do something for Charlie. We can't for Vince," Jed said in a case-closed tone.

May asked questions all the way to the cemetery, but be­cause she had no answers Skye concentrated on the scenery crawling past her window. She allowed her mind to wander, trying to block out her mother's voice.

As the column of cars turned left on Basin and headed south of town, Skye glanced at the orange and white exterior of the Strike and Spare Bowling Alley. Its blackened win­dows and peeling paint gave it a jack-o'-lantern appearance.

Skye sighed and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the car was inching past McDonald's plaza. People were walking out, carrying cups of coffee and brown paper sacks. Turning her head, she gazed at the cornfield on the other side. A billboard announced it was the future home of the newest Castleview housing development.

She watched the yellow-green stalks heavy with ripe ears of corn rustle in the breeze. Soon the farmers would be out on the combine harvesting them, but right now the blackbirds were enjoying a morning snack.

Brick and wrought-iron gates loomed on the east side of the road, spelling out the words "Scumble River Ceme­tery." Winding their way down the narrow dirt lane, the cars turned first right, then left, then left again before stop­ping within sight of a dark-green canvas awning.

The coffin and the flowers from the funeral home were set up in the front of the shelter. Charlie and Simon stood together. By the time the Denisons trudged up from the rear of the procession, the space under the tent was full. As they

stood to one side, Charlie motioned for them to come next tohim"

Before Simon started the interment ceremony, Charlie whispered into Skye's ear, "What happened to you guys? I wanted you to ride with me."

"Vince was arrested," Skye whispered back. "His lawyer called just as we were leaving."

Simon must have heard what she said because he gave her a quizzical look before beginning. After he said a short prayer and gave a few inspirational words, the crowd filed by Charlie and the casket once again.

Standing up front, Skye noticed that all her suspects had come for the funeral. Darleen, looking like a corpse herself, was dressed in a slinky black dress that hugged her skeletal frame and accentuated her chalk-white complexion.

Looking every inch a principal, Lloyd was impeccably outfitted in an expensive blue suit with coordinating shirt and tie. Not to be outdone, Mike wore a charcoal-gray pin­striped suit that made him look as if he had stepped off the pages of a Marshall Field's ad.

If she were judging them on the crime of bad taste, Dar­leen would have to be the killer. Maybe she was using drugs. The clothes she wore had to have some pharmaceuti­cal explanation.

Skye's attention wandered to a group standing on the edge of the crowd. She had been introduced to them by Charlie at the funeral home. The short, square-shaped woman was Honey's agent, Blanche Herman. She kept glancing at her watch and sighing.

Next to Blanche stood Roxanne Dunn, Honey's publi­cist. She was busy scribbling in a pocket-size notebook.

The last of the Chicago Three, as Skye had dubbed them, was the producer of Gumdrop Lane, Adrian Warner. As Skye watched him, he examined his manicured nails and adjusted the collar of his lilac silk shirt. She quickly scanned the crowd to see if anyone else noticed. All eyes

were facing forward. Skye hoped the Chicago people would come to the luncheon; Adrian would certainly liven things up. May had taken another peek at Honey's file and reported to Skye this morning. It was too bad that all three had alibis for the time of Honey's death. Each of them looked as if killing would be all in a day's work.

CHAPTER 21

Luck Be a Lady

Charlie's friends and neighbors had done him proud. His kitchen table and all available counter space were cov­ered with dishes of food. Walters' Supermarket had sent over a sliced roast beef, and the grocery store had con­tributed a spiral-cut ham. There were pies and cakes of every flavor. Jell-O molds jockeyed for position with green-bean-and-french-fried-onion casseroles.

Skye circulated through the assembly. People were balanc­ing plates and cups while standing in little knots gossiping. She refilled coffee, dispensed napkins, and eavesdropped on her suspects' conversations.

Mike and Lloyd stood with their heads together for their entire stay. Skye caught the words "Chokeberry Days" once and the phrase "this should take the wind out of his sails" an­other time, but for the most part they stopped talking when­ever she appeared. Skye knew the two men were against continuing the festival, but she thought it was incredibly tacky of them to discuss it while under Charlie's roof, considering that he was so clearly in favor of the event.

On his way out, Mike took her hand and inclined his head. "I wish you'd reconsider and come to the services at my church tomorrow."

"If I get out of my meeting early, I'll do that," Skye promised insincerely, removing her hand from his grasp and holding the screen door open. "Thanks for coming. I'm sure Charlie appreciates it."

Lloyd was next to leave. He shook hands with Charlie and made his way over to Skye. "Can I speak to you a mo­ment in private?"

She glanced at the people still filling Charlie's small house. "How about the office? It's through the connecting door at the end of the hall."

He followed her silently. When they reached the office, he said, "Someone called my wife Saturday morning, pre­tending to be from the paper. Do you know anything about that?"

"How would I know about something like that? What do you mean, 'pretending to be from the paper'?"

Lloyd backed Skye into the counter and poked her with his finger, breathing angrily into her face. "Someone called pretending to be Barb, but Barb's in St. Louis visiting her sister this weekend. Her husband is our custodian. He men­tioned they were leaving right after school Friday."

Skye tried to move away from Lloyd, but he put a hand on either side of her. She thought fast. "That's pretty odd. Could your wife have misunderstood? Maybe what they said was that they were calling for Barb."

"Wrong!" he roared, french-fried-onion fumes smacking her in the face. "You can't fool me that easily. I called the Star. There are no pictures from Chokeberry Days that they're trying to identify."

"That's strange, but I don't know why you think I'm in­volved." Skye shoved Lloyd away.

"Because it occurred to me that whoever made that call was trying to check to see if I had an alibi for the time of Honey's death."

Skye had been edging toward the door as he spoke. She fumbled behind her for the knob. "How clever. Maybe it was the police." She pushed the door open.

"I didn't kill Honey Adair. If you keep trying to prove I did, all you're going to do is bring up the past and ruin my marriage." Lloyd's voice was low and beseeching.

Now that she was steps away from other people, Skye felt safer. "I'll do whatever I have to do to save Vince."