Denise Swanson - Murder of a Small-Town Honey

"It's her, all right. We found the wig and makeup she used to make herself look old. Also, she was wearing the costume." Simon took a small notebook from his pocket.

"Do you know her real name?" Skye stretched her neck, trying to get a look at the pad from which he was reading.

"No. We asked Charlie, and he said there was no formal contract for her appearance today since she wasn't getting paid. So, they have no idea who she really is. The only thing we know for sure is she isn't in her sixties."

"I guess they'll have to get in touch with her agent."

Simon continued almost to himself. "She was really a very tiny person. I haven't measured her yet, but I'd guess she wasn't even five feet tall and couldn't have weighed ninety pounds."

"Then almost anyone could have killed her," Skye said.

CHAPTER 4

Call Me Up

Around five, the police finally allowed Skye to leave. Even though she was hungry, she did not want to see anyone she knew or answer any more questions. This nar­rowed her options to driving to Kankakee, which would take almost an hour, or returning home and hoping she could find something in her fridge.

As soon as she reached her cottage, Skye showered and changed into a pair of old denim shorts and an orange University of Illinois T-shirt. She slipped her feet into rub­ber thongs and went to explore the food situation. A chunk of cheese, a few slices of salami, and half a box of crack­ers tossed onto a tray made up her meal. She added a glass of Caffeine-Free Diet Coke and walked out to her deck. After placing her dinner on a side table, she settled into a cushioned lounge chair and tried to forget the past eight hours by gazing at the river and allowing her mind to go blank.

As she felt the muscles in her neck and back relax, she thought how lucky she'd been to get this cottage. Discover­ing it was the only good thing that had happened to her since she'd found out she would have to move back to Scumble River. She'd rented it sight unseen through a newspaper ad and had been relieved that it was even better in real life than the picture and description promised.

The owners were from Chicago. Before their messy di­vorce they had used the cottage as a weekend hideaway.

Neither was willing to sell it, give it up, or share it, so until they could come to some compromise they were renting it. Skye hoped they wouldn't achieve any common ground until after she could figure out a way to leave Scumble River.

She loved the unusual octagonal shape of the house. And the deck reaching from the left of the front door, around the side and all along the back, made her feel almost like she was living in a tree house. The small center cupola acted as a skylight, drawing extra sunshine into the high-ceilinged rooms.

The cottage's location among the weeping willows and the elms along the riverbank allowed for the privacy Skye had missed since she'd left her family's farm. There were few other houses on the road, and all were obscured by thick foliage.

Skye tried to focus on the house, but her thoughts kept returning to the murder. After a few minutes she gave up and went to phone her mom. She needed to talk things over with someone, and since she'd been gone from Scumble River for over twelve years, her choices were limited.

May answered on the first ring.

"Mom, it's me." Skye pictured her mother standing in her green-and-white kitchen, looking out the big picture window at the backyard. May's salt-and-pepper hair was cut very short to take advantage of its natural waves, and her emerald-green eyes matched Skye's own. She would be wearing denim shorts and a T-shirt, probably one with the insignia of her beloved Cubs baseball team printed on the front.

"Oh, thank God. I was so worried. I've been calling over and over ever since I heard about the murder. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Charlie's fine. Everyone we know is fine." Skye took a seat on a kitchen chair. This was going to be a

long conversation. "Mrs. Gumtree, that children's TV star, was the one killed."

May sighed. "That's a relief. So, the person who was killed was from Chicago—nothing to do with us."

Skye thought about explaining that people who didn't live in Scumble River were still worthy of their concern, but took a deep breath and instead broached the subject she had called about. "Mom, do you know any of the teachers at the high school?"

"No. Not offhand. Why?"

"Well, I spent Friday there visiting classrooms and ob­serving students. I took a break around ten that morning, and Chokeberry Days was the hot topic of conversation in the teachers' lounge."

"There has been a lot of fighting this year about the fes­tival. People really took sides," May said.

Skye stretched the phone cord to its limit and grabbed a cookie from the jar on the counter. "Yeah, I saw that at the chokeberry jelly judging yesterday. I thought there was going to be a brawl right then and there, especially after the mayor's death was prematurely announced."

"Wasn't that awful? But I hear Eldon's fine today—not that he didn't get what he deserved."

"Huh? What's happened to Chokeberry Days? When I was little, the whole festival started Saturday afternoon with the judging of the jams and jellies. There was a carni­val that night and a parade Sunday. How did all these extra activities get started?" Skye took a bite of her Oreo.

May's voice indicated her disapproval. "Things really got out of hand this year. Our beloved mayor is trying to put Scumble River on the map. Every year Chokeberry Days gets bigger and more extravagant. And ends up caus­ing more trouble. A couple of years ago, he had the bright idea of having a Harley-Davidson exhibition, so now we get hundreds of bikers tearing up the town during the festi­val."

"Let me guess—you really can't say anything against the whole thing because of Uncle Charlie."

"Chokeberry Days is his baby," May admitted.

"True, and we all know what happens to people who aren't nice to other people's children." Skye put the rest of the cookie in her mouth and crunched.

CHAPTER 5

The Sounds of Silence

Monday morning, heading toward her meeting with the junior high principal, Skye felt a lump of dread settle in her stomach. Since she'd started her job a week ago, things had not been going according to plan, and she felt the whole situation slipping out of her control. The princi­pals of both the high school and the elementary school had made it clear the week before that they had no time to talk to Skye about her duties or answer her questions.

No one seemed very interested in having her around or even sure what to do with her. Finding out where she was supposed to work and locating the supplies she would need made her feel about as popular as a Christmas fruitcake.

She had just met with the superintendent, who after sev­eral telephone calls between his secretary and those at the various schools, promised her an office in the junior high. If she was still employed next year, the elementary would take a turn housing her, and if the unheard-of occurred and she stayed a third year, the high school would ante up a space.

When Skye entered his office, the junior high principal, Lloyd Stark, glanced pointedly at his watch and scowled.

"Oh, gee, sorry to be late. The superintendent kept me longer than I expected."

He nodded, but his impatient expression was easy to read. He gestured to the pair of straight-back vinyl chairs across from his desk without speaking.

Skye felt her temper push its way to the surface. In order to regain control, she let her gaze sweep the small room. It was painted a dull beige. The walls were decorated with en­graved plaques and citations. No posters or paintings were present to reveal the taste of the occupant. The furniture was utilitarian—nothing stuffed or upholstered that might invite the occupant to get comfortable or stay longer than was strictly necessary. Flat brown carpet suggested that it, too, had been selected for thrift rather than style. And the only light glared from the ceiling fixture's fluorescent bulb.