Denise Swanson - Murder of a Small-Town Honey

"Honey loved secrets and hiding and sneaking around. I think it was going behind Charlie's back that turned her on more than I did."

"Where did you two, ah, you know, do it?" Skye asked, curious as to the mechanics of the situation. "I mean, Char­lie owned the only motel. Neither of you had any privacy where you lived, and as I remember you drove a Camaro— not exactly roomy enough for sex."

"She had a few places all decked out and ready. But each boyfriend only got to know about one of them. Our place was the boathouse at the recreational club." Vince frowned. "Wait a minute. I remember Honey talking about another of her rendezvous spots. She said 'Union' would be a good name for it."

Skye thought hard. 'There's a lot of different ways you could take that. The Union versus the Confederacy, the union of two people in holy matrimony ..."

"That doesn't help much, does it?" Vince's voice re­flected his disappointment.

"It's on the tip of my tongue. It'll come to me if I think of something else."

CHAPTER 23

Time in a Bottle

Vince kept urging Skye to leave before it got too late. He was worried about her lonely drive home. The roads between Laurel and Scumble River were rural and deserted at night. At quarter to eight, she gave in and called to the deputy.

After hugging Vince good-bye, she accompanied Ed out of the jail. As she walked by the guy in the first cell, she asked casually, "What's he in for?"

Ed locked the door and grinned. "That's a funny one, Miss. That fellow walked into the travel agency in town and asked for an airline ticket. Didn't care about the cost. He just wanted the next flight to Miami.

"The agent asked him the date of his return. He said no return, he wanted a one-way ticket. She wanted to know how he'd pay. He took out a roll of bills thick enough to choke a horse. They finished their business, he took the ticket and left. She figured it was sorta unusual, but. . . what the heck, it's a weird business.

"Except he came in the next week and they went through the same routine. This time she called us. We checked things out. Shot his description to the feds, and what do you know? He's wanted for drug smuggling in three states. We're holding him until their agent gets here."

Skye reclaimed her tote from the desk. "Pretty sharp travel agent."

"They get real suspicious. There're a lot of scams people try to play on them."

"Thanks, Ed. I'd better get going before my meter runs out."

"Tell Betty not to forget those cookies," Ed shouted after Skye's retreating back.

Betty looked up from her word search puzzle when Skye stopped at her counter to say good-bye. "Did Ed treat you okay?"

"He was very nice. What does he usually do?"

She walked with Skye to the outside door. "He likes to scare girls. You know, pretend he won't let them out."

"Well, thanks for taking care of him. I'm in no mood for that nonsense." Skye waved and made her way to her car. It was eight-fifteen exactly, and the meter's red flag popped up just as she pulled away.

Pondering the word union, Skye drove toward Scumble River. She turned on the radio, but WCCQ out of Crest Hill was full of static, so she tuned in to the Chicago country music station, US99.

According to the radio, it was nine on the dot when Skye turned onto Maryland Street in Scumble River. The news and weather were being broadcast, interrupting the music.

There was a moment of silence, then the announcer's voice said, "Our big story for today is an explosion in a passenger train at Union Station."

Skye was thinking, Nowhere is safe, when it hit her: Union Station. "Union " could mean that old railroad depot on Kinsman Road. It had been vacant for years.

Without a second thought she went through the intersec­tion at Basin, past Center Street, and turned left on Kins­man. Four blocks down, past the railroad tracks, on the left side, was the old terminal, a small clapboard building with peeling paint and broken windows.

Skye took the flashlight from the glove compartment and slid out of the car. She left her purse inside, locked the

door, and pocketed the keys. It was a bright night and the moon was almost full, so she didn't switch on the light. Cautiously, she picked her way across the loose boards and up the rotting wooden steps.

Because the door was off its hinges, she was able to shove it aside. She stepped into the room, turned on the flashlight, and played it over the interior. A dirty mattress with springs poking through the torn cover lay against one wall. Beer cans and wine bottles were scattered every­where. An old oil lantern, melted candle stubs and empty matchbooks littered the floor.

Short of carbon dating, there was no way to tell how long this debris had been here.

Feeling discouraged, Skye was about to leave when it occurred to her. Honey liked to hide things. Maybe she hid something here.

She looked over everything again and thought, It can't be in something movable. Honey would have been afraid someone would carry it off unknowingly.

Okay, the walls and floor look solid. What else is perma­nent?

A counter that ran the length of the rear wall was the only other fixed feature in the room. Skye walked around it. It was open in the back. She pointed her flashlight inside but found nothing.

She had already made her way back around the ledge and was almost out the door when she thought, / never looked up.

Retracing her steps, she squatted down and shone the light on the underside of the counter. Nothing. Next, she reached up into the inverted crevice at the joining of the top and the front board.

Duck-walking the length of the shelf, Skye trailed her fingers along the vee. In the furthest corner she felt some­thing. By turning around and sitting inside the opening, she

could see a manila envelope attached to the wood with gray duct tape.

As Skye tore it down, she heard a cracking sound, as if one of the outside wooden steps had given way. Before coming from under the counter, she took her shirttail out of her pants and stuck the bulky envelope down the back waistband of her slacks. She blessed both elastic-waist pants and oversized blouses while she tucked her shirt back in.

A police siren sounded in the distance as she crawled backwards. It was the last thing she heard before she felt her head explode and the world disappeared.

/ can sleep a few minutes more. My alarm hasn 't gone off yet. It smells as if Mom is burning the toast again, Skye thought as she stretched her hand out, encountering rough wood instead of a smooth sheet.

Prying her eyes open, she squinted. Where was she and why did she have such a headache? Struggling to her knees, she saw that the room was full of smoke. Nausea welled up in her throat when she started to rise, so she crawled in­stead.

Skye was nearly to the entrance when she realized the fire was stronger in that direction and the door was com­pletely blocked by flames. Concentrating, she remembered a window in the center of the back wall, but she didn't know if it was large enough to squeeze through.

She dragged herself back. The smoke was so thick that she began coughing and gasping for air. Without standing up, she took off one loafer and tried to knock out the re­maining shards of glass from the broken window. When she was sure the space was clear, she put her shoe back on and grasped the sill.

Skye hauled herself up and rested her midriff on the window frame. Although she had never had much upper-body strength, and couldn't complete even one chin-up, she

somehow managed to squirm through the opening. Cover­ing her head with her arms, she thrust herself outside with her feet.

She fell the short distance to the grass and somersaulted to a stop. She felt the small of her back—the envelope was still there. She hoped that the person who had hit her in the head was gone, because she could go no farther.