Murder of a Snake in the Grass
“Skye Denison is the quintessential amateur sleuth: bright, curious, and more than a little nervy.”
—Earlene Fowler
PRAISE FOR DENISE SWANSON’S SCUMBLE
RIVER MYSTERY SERIES
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty
“A smooth, pleasant, and ultimately satisfying book.”
—Chicago Tribune
“It’s no mystery why the first Scumble River novel was nominated for the prestigious Agatha Award. Denise Swanson knows small-town America, its secrets and its self-delusions, and she writes as if she might have been hiding behind a tree when some of the bodies were being buried. A delightful new series.”—Margaret Maron “Fast-paced and lively.”—Romantic Times (4 stars) “Another delightful and intriguing escapade…. When this book reaches your local bookseller, do yourself a favor and buy it.”—Mystery News
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady
“Skye is a quixotic blend of vulnerability and strength….
Denise Swanson is on her way to the top of the genre….
A magnificent tale written by a wonderful author.”
—BookBrowser
“Superbly written with emotion and everything a good mystery needs…. Shame on you if you miss anything by Denise Swanson.”—The Bookshelf
“Swanson’s writing is fresh and snappy…. Skye Denison [is] one of the most likable protagonists in softer-boiled mystery fiction today. Murder of a Sweet Old Lady is more fun than the Whirl-A-Gig at the county fair and tastier than a corndog.”—The Charlotte Austin Review Murder of a Small-Town Honey
“A delightful mystery that bounces along with gently wry humor and jaunty twists and turns.”—Earlene Fowler “A lighthearted, entertaining mystery.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“A charming, insightful debut mystery.”—Carolyn Hart “The start of a bright new series. Swanson captures the essence of small-town life in Scumble River, and Skye is a likable heroine.”—Romantic Times
“Denise Swanson has created a likable new heroine reminiscent of some of our favorite childhood detectives—with a little bit of an edge…. A fresh, delightful, and enjoyable first mystery.”—The Charlotte Austin Review “Skye is smart, feisty, quick to action and altogether lovable.”—I Love a Mystery
“A charming debut novel that rings with humor, buzzes with suspense, and engages with each page turned….
An impressive first novel worthy of praise.”
—The Daily Journal (Kankakee, IL) “With a light touch, [Swanson]’s crafted a likable heroine in a wackily realistic small-town community with wonderful series potential. I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot more of Denise Swanson and Scumble River.”
—The Mystery Morgue
Other Scumble River Mysteries
Murder of a Sleeping Beauty
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady
Murder of a Small-Town Honey
Scumble River is not a real town. The characters and
events portrayed in these pages are entirely fictional, and
any resemblance to living persons is pure coincidence.
Murder of a
Snake in the
Grass
A Scumble River Mystery
DENISE
SWANSON
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2003
10 9 8 7
Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2003
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-101-56755-5
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA Printed in the United States of America Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
To school psychologists everywhere who try
every day to do the right thing for the children,
especially my colleagues in Illinois
Acknowledgments
My sincere thanks to:
My paternal aunt and uncle, Pooch and Billie Swanson; my maternal aunt and uncle, Rosella and Joe Votta; my cousins Peter Bianchetta, Rich McLuckie, Phil McLuckie, and Tiffany and Justin Friddle; and the rest of my relatives and friends, who help my mother manage without my father.
Special thanks to my Personal Assistant and Der Webmeister, Dave Stybr, for supporting me in countless ways.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
CHAPTER 1
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
Skye Denison stood in the Up A Lazy River Motor Court parking lot, slapping mosquitoes and trying to keep an eye on her godfather, Charlie Patukas. Not that he was hard to spot—at six feet, three hundred pounds, with a voice that could be heard two counties over, he was about as easy to miss as the Sears Tower in the Chicago skyline.
The problem was that he and the rest of th
e Scumble River Bicentennial Committee kept milling around on the grandstand. To Skye, they looked like fish in an aquarium: first they all darted to the right side of the stage; then they all charged to the left.
It was obvious that something was going on, but what? With each passing minute, the committee was getting more and more agitated. While other committee members appeared merely irritated, Charlie looked apoplectic. At seventy-three, with high blood pressure and a Type A personality, he was a stroke waiting to happen. And that was what worried Skye.
She swatted another bug and chewed on her bottom lip. Should she go up there and try to calm him down, or would that just annoy him more? There was a fine line between helping and making the situation worse. As a school psychologist, she often had to figure out when to cross that boundary. Too bad practice didn’t make perfect.
While she continued to monitor the shade of red Charlie’s face was turning, she dug into the pocket of her black shorts for a scrunchie to pull back her humidity-frizzed chestnut curls. The freshly-ironed white T-shirt she had put on when school got out at one o’clock now had all the crispness of a used dishtowel and stuck to her ample curves like a damp spiderweb. She felt as if she had never dried off from her morning swim.
What was she doing standing in ninety-degree heat on a Friday afternoon, waiting to hear some yahoo talk about the founding of Scumble River? She hadn’t come with the intent to look out for Charlie’s health. That was a bonus. Her real reason was simple. When you lived in the small town where you grew up, you were obligated to show your face at certain social events, whether you wanted to attend or not.
Even after two and a half years, Skye sometimes wondered if moving back to Scumble River had been such a good idea—not that she’d had much choice back then. But now that she’d saved a little money and could count on a decent job reference, maybe it was time to think about leaving. True, the last time she left hadn’t worked out too well, but this time would be different. Wouldn’t it?
She’d have to think about that later. Charlie’s face had just gone from hot pink to purple. It was time to intervene. She moved closer to the platform, stepping through the dried grass, sand, and rocks that had been spread over the asphalt in an attempt to make the area look as it had two hundred years ago. Luckily, the river running alongside the motor court’s parking lot had not changed, or else the committee would probably have tried to re-create it, too.
Eldon Clapp’s high, whiny voice assailed her ears as she neared the grandstand. “Where is he, Fayanne? You said he’d be here a half hour before the start of the opening ceremony. For twenty years, I’ve done a good job as mayor of Scumble River, and now the only thing people will remember is that I ruined the bicentennial.”
Fayanne Emerick, owner of the Brown Bag Liquor Store, stabbed the mayor in the chest with a dagger-like magenta fingernail, which matched the fuchsia polyester pants and shirt she had practically spray-painted on her pudgy body. “Don’t you go blaming me, Eldon Clapp. I called Gabriel Scumble yesterday, just like I was supposed to. And don’t think I’m eating the long-distance charges either. Why in heaven’s name the great-great-grandnephew of the guy who founded Scumble River lives in Montreal is beyond me.”
Obviously at least one member of the newly formed Scumble River Historical Society—or, as Skye liked to call it, the Hysterical Society—didn’t know the town’s past very well. Even she knew that the founder, Pierre Scumble, had been a French Canadian, a fact which might give Fayanne a hint as to why his descendant lived in Montreal.
“He’s more than thirty minutes late.” Mayor Clapp wrung his hands.
Miss Letitia, the only real historian on the committee, hit the mayor on his shoulder with her handbag and said, “I warned you about the Scumble family. Pierre was a rogue. It stands to reason his progeny would be untrustworthy too.”
Clapp ignored the older woman—it was obvious he had tuned her out long ago—and continued to speak to the liquor store owner. “You have to do something, Fayanne.”
“Me?” she screeched. “Why me?”
“Your committee was responsible for the speaker. After all, I found him for you and made the initial call. All you had to do was follow up.”
“All? That man is harder to get on the telephone than the president, and his number kept changing.” Fayanne bit off each word as if tearing into a strip of beef jerky.
“Don’t give me excuses. We each had one thing to do. My committee had to build the platform. Charlie’s had the reenactment of the landing, Kevin’s had the decorations. And Miss Letitia’s prepared the historical reading.”
Fayanne’s small, hoglike eyes were turning from their usual muddy brown to an ox-blood red. Skye was afraid she would start punching the mayor any second. If that happened, it was a certainty that Charlie would join in the fight.
Skye had one foot on the grandstand’s bottom step when a voice stopped her. “Ms. Denison, they’re going to kill those kids this time.”
“What?” Skye swung around, nearly losing her balance. “Where?”
Standing a little to the right of the stairs was a high school student she had seen hanging out on the fringes of several cliques. She couldn’t remember the girl’s name. “Who is going to kill who?”
The teen ignored Skye’s question, fear evident in her eyes. “They’re over behind the parked cars. You need to do something right now!”
Skye hesitated and looked back to the platform. The fracas seemed to be momentarily over. Fayanne had moved into a neutral corner and was brooding. The rest of the group was standing around at the other end of the stage. Charlie’s color had faded to its normal florid state. Skye turned back to the girl, but she had disappeared.
Great. What should she do? There were hundreds of people in the parking lot; maybe she could ask one of them to go see what was wrong. No, the girl had come to her. She’d spent the last two years getting the kids at her schools to trust her, so this was not the time to ignore a plea for help.
Skye prayed Charlie would be okay and took off in the direction of the parking lot.
The sun burned down on her as she ran. Normally the seasons are very distinctive in Illinois, although occasionally spring and fall are cut a little short. This year it seemed as if summer was refusing to give way, causing the middle of September to reach a record high of ninety-five degrees.
Prolonged and intense heat often caused tempers to flare, and Skye was afraid of what she might find when she reached the parking area. She skidded around the fender of a huge black pickup, and saw that half a dozen high school bullies had cornered a group of more timid teens and were pelting them with rocks, rotten food, and verbal abuse. Skye wondered briefly which hurt the most.
She debated going for help, but leaving the trapped kids to the mercy of their tormentors was not an option. Surveying the various vehicles, she spotted one with its windows rolled down. It was an old Pinto that the owner was confident no one would steal. Skye hoped its horn worked. It would be her only way of summoning help if things went badly.
One of the bullies looked familiar. Although not as tall as many of his cohorts, he was well muscled with reddish-blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles. As she got closer, she realized he was a sophomore she had just completed a psychological assessment on the week before. In fact, she had a meeting scheduled with his parents on Tuesday. This was both good and bad news. On the one hand she had a name; on the other hand her evaluation had indicated a high likelihood that this kid had little in the way of a social conscience, despite his boyish good looks.
Skye stepped to the side of the Pinto, stood up straight, and said in a steel-edged voice, “Grady Nelson, stop that immediately!”
All action paused as the teens turned toward her. She held her ground but made sure she was in reach of the Ford’s open window.
“Go away, Ms. Denison, this isn’t any of your business,” Grady drawled.
“I’m afraid it is, Grady. I can’t let you hurt other kids.”
“We aren’t hurting them. We’re just messing around—playing.”
“But they don’t seem to be having a good time.”
“You just don’t understand. Life’s got to be fun. If it isn’t fun, it has to move. If it’s not moving, maybe we need to poke it a little. If we poke it, maybe we can make it mad and it’ll move. I can’t handle it when everything is standing still.”
“How about if they come with me and you find another way to entertain yourself.” She risked a peek at the kids being picked on. They seemed okay.
“Nah, that doesn’t sound fun.” He selected a glass bottle from a pile of debris at his feet. From his pocket he dug out a small can of lighter fluid and poured some into the container. Next, he grabbed the handkerchief from around his forehead and stuck it into the neck of the bottle.
Skye swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. What in the world could she say to stop him from lighting that Molotov cocktail and flinging it among the teens? She glanced at Grady’s gang. They seemed uneasy, too.
Hoping she had gauged their mood correctly, Skye said, “Hey, why waste your time and energy on those kids?” The words stuck in her throat. She hoped the kids she was trying to save didn’t think she really felt that way about them. “How about you guys coming with me, and I’ll buy you each an ice cold soda and a hot dog.”
Grady glanced over his shoulder, smirking in a way that would have provoked any right-thinking adult to slap him. “Anyone want to go get a pop with the nice lady?”
The surprise on his face was priceless when most of his gang nodded, and one said, “Sure, this is getting whack.”