Denise Swanson - Murder of a Small-Town Honey

Skye hesitated, not wanting to get involved in whatever trouble Fayanne was trying to stir up, but also not wanting to forsake Charlie in his hour of need. Before she could set­tle on a course of action, Fayanne stalked off.

Charlie spotted Skye and motioned for her to come over. At close to six feet and three hundred pounds, Charlie

Patukas was not easily ignored, nor his wishes disregarded. He wore his standard uniform of gray twill pants, limp white shirt, and red suspenders. His expression implied he'd seen it all—twice—during his seventy years. He began talking before she could ask what was up with Fayanne. "Skye, you look beautiful. I'm so glad you finally put some meat on your bones."

"Thanks, Uncle Charlie. What a sweet thing to say." At least someone, besides herself, was happy with the new curvier Skye.

Charlie went on smoothly, "I'm glad you're here. I need a woman's touch."

"For what?" Skye backed up, prepared for flight.

"I need to talk to Mrs. Gumtree, to tell her what to do in the parade, but she doesn't answer her door."

"I saw her dressing room while I was looking for you. If the sign on the door is any indication, she doesn't want any company."

Charlie took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. "I'm not company. I'm the grand marshal, and I need to give her some instructions. I'll bet she wouldn't pull this shit if the director from her TV show wanted to talk to her. For crying out loud! It's less than an hour 'til show time and I haven't even met the woman yet. No one has. Except for the storytelling yesterday, she hasn't come out of her trailer."

"I'm sure she's afraid she'll get mobbed by kids wanting her autograph."

He held up one hand and clutched his throat with the other. "I've pounded on that trailer door 'til I bruised my hand, and I yelled until I was hoarse. She knows it's not kids wanting her autograph, she's just being a pain in the—"

Skye interrupted before he could get into a full-blown description of his true feelings on this matter. "So, you

want me to go injure my hand and lose my voice too, right?"

"Yep. I figure you can psychoanalyze her out of her trailer."

Giving him a dirty look, she turned to go. "What am I supposed to say if I do get her to open the door? Maybe you should come with me."

"I've got to go talk to Wally about who he's assigned for the parade's police escort. I'll check on you in ten minutes or so."

Skye stood on the top step of the motor coach's metal stairs and knocked. There was no response—not that she expected any. If Mrs. Gumtree could ignore Charlie's bang­ing, it was a sure bet she wouldn't be motivated to open the door by Skye's puny efforts.

Next she called, "Uh, Mrs. Gumtree." She felt asinine calling a grown woman "Mrs. Gumtree," especially through a closed trailer door.

No reply. She raised her voice and tried again. "Mrs. Gumtree, I'm not a fan." Skye realized how bad that sounded as soon as it left her mouth.

She was beginning to feel desperate, which prompted her to yell as loudly as she could, "Look, Mrs. Gumtree, I'm from the parade committee. Mr. Patukas, the grand marshal, needs to speak to you right now."

Nothing. Skye grabbed the knob, intending to rattle the door, but on her first shake it swung open. She braced her­self and stuck her head into the room. To the left was the kitchen area. A divider blocked her view to the right. She called out again. Silence.

Stepping inside, she stopped for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. As she edged past the panel, she could see the section of the trailer previously hidden by the room partition. It contained an immense dressing table with a mirror surrounded by lights and a padded bench,

turned on its side. All the drawers of the dressing table had been pulled out and their contents scattered on the floor.

Suitcases and a garment bag were turned inside out, their linings slashed. A makeup case, its contents oozing into the green carpet, lay on its side, the hinges broken. Peeking out from under the bench were feet shod in pointy rolled-up-toe shoes. It looked as if the remains of the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz were crumpled on the trailer floor.

Skye ran over and pushed the bench aside. "Mrs. Gumtree, are you all right?"

There was no answer or movement, but she still couldn't see the whole person, as the head and torso were in the knee-well of the dressing table. She crouched down and reached into the recess, trying to find a pulse, and felt something sticky instead. When she withdrew her hand, it was covered with blood.

Pressure, Skye thought, fighting to stay calm. / should apply pressure to the wound. But I can't see where it is. Should I drag her out of there? No. You aren't supposed to move people who are injured.

Stop it, she commanded herself. You can do this. You've been trained to remain detached. You've got to distance yourself.

This isn't grad school. This is an actual emergency. Do something constructive. Skye sank to her knees. The sour taste of bile surfaced in her mouth.

She tried to disconnect her emotions. Is she alive? Find out.

Skye crawled forward and steeled herself to reach back into the blackness. Stretching as far as she was able, not wanting to slip and land on the woman, she pressed her fin­gers into the bloody neck. No pulse.

Before she could make a decision about her next move, someone started pounding on the door.

Things were happening too fast for her mind to process. Skye reacted instinctively. "Who is it?"

"Goddamn it, Skye, who do you think it is? Santa? Let me in." Charlie's voice was unmistakable.

She stood up, mindful to touch nothing—all those years of watching Dragnet reruns were paying off at last.

She walked to the door, gathering her thoughts before speaking. "Charlie, listen carefully. Something has hap­pened in here and you can't come in. I don't want to touch the knob on this side of the door, but since it isn't locked you can open it. Don't come in, just open the door and then step aside, so I can come out."

The door swung open and Charlie plunged into the room. Skye grabbed him by the arms and propelled him back out. He tripped on the top step, stumbled down the re­maining stairs, and landed in a sitting position on the ground.

He looked up at Skye, who was closing the trailer door as if it were made of eggshells. "What the hell was that about?"

Skye tried to speak but felt tears clogging her throat. / will not cry. Instead, she held out her right hand, still cov­ered in blood.

"Did you cut yourself?" Charlie looked confused.

"I think Mrs. Gumtree has been murdered." Skye leaned against the closed door.

When Charlie didn't speak, Skye asked, "Did you find Chief Boyd?"

Charlie got up from the asphalt and dusted off the seat of his pants while still staring at the blood on Skye's hand. "Yeah, he's over by the Vintage Cars."

Taking a deep breath, Skye descended the stairs and sat down on the bottom step. She found a tissue in her pocket and tried to clean up her hand. "Why don't you go get him? I'll sit here and make sure no one goes inside." Skye saw

that her knees were shaking, and she thought she might vomit.

Charlie started to walk away, but turned back before he had taken more than a few steps. "What if the murderer is still in there?"

Looking around, she spotted one of her many cousins heading their way. "Kenny, Kenny Denison. I need some help over here."

He waved, trotted over, and sat next to her. "What's up?"

When Charlie still didn't move, Skye touched Kenny's bulging forearm and asked her uncle, "Do you think anyone will mess with me while Kenny is here?"

Charlie took a good look at the nineteen-year-old and turned away. "Fine. I'll get Wally."