Murder of a Sweet Old Lady srm-2 Read online

  Murder of a Sweet Old Lady

  ( Scumble River Mystery - 2 )

  Denise Swanson

  Praise for the first novel in the Scumble River

  mystery series,

  Murder of a Small-Town Honey

  “Denise Swanson has created a likable new heroine reminiscent of some of our favorite childhood detectives—with a little bit of an edge. Swanson’s writing is clear and precise as she recreates the atmosphere of a small town that everyone who has ever lived in one will recognize. Murder of a Small-Town Honey is a fresh, delightful, and enjoyable first mystery.”

  —Charlotte Austin Review

  “It’s a charming debut novel that rings with humor, buzzes with suspense, and engages with each page turned. . . . An impressive first novel worthy of praise.”

  —Kankakee Daily Journey (IL)

  “This mystery contains everything I like in a cozy. . . . Murder of a Small-Town Honey is a super debut; you can’t get any better than this.”—Myself.com

  “The story clearly belongs to Skye, who makes this novel soar.”—Harriet Klausner, Under the Covers

  “The start of a bright, new series.”—Romantic Times

  “Swanson’s first effort, and a lovely one it is, too. With a light touch she’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.”

  —P.J. Nunn, Mystery Morgue

  “Skye is smart, feisty, quick to action, and altogether lovable.”—I Love a Mystery

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  First Printing, April 2001

  Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2001

  All rights reserved

  To my grandparents,

  who all died perfectly natural deaths.

  Kathryn Votta 1906-1960

  Albert Votta, Sr. 1902-1973

  Laura Swanson 1902-1997

  William Swanson 1900-1977

  and

  To Purrcie the Cat,

  who inspired the character of Bingo.

  1979 -1999

  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.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the following people: Joyce Fla herty for her continuing belief in my talent; Ellen Ed wards for extraordinary editorial expertise; my fellow Deadly Divas Susan McBride, Letha Albright, and Sherri Board for their efforts as promo group extraordinaire; Jane Isenberg, Aileen Schumacher, Laura Renken, and Mary Jane Meier, fellow writers who shared the ups and downs; Cindi Baker, Andrea Pantaleone, and Valerie Mc-Caffrey, friends who let me talk endlessly about my ideas and aspirations; the Windy City Chapter of RWA who are always supportive; Marie Swanson and the late Ernie Swanson, who understood my need for time to write; and, finally, my husband, Dave Stybr, who supports me through this new adventure.

  CHAPTER 1

  Hey, Diddle, Diddle, the Cat and the Riddle

  Skye Denison warily studied the hostile faces of Gus Yoder’s parents. As a school psychologist, she often attended uncomfortable meetings, but this one was murder.

  Scumble River High School principal Homer Knapik was seated to her right, and every time she glanced his way, her attention was drawn to the hair growing out of his ears. The long, wiry strands quivered like the curb feelers on a car’s wheels. Skye had heard the students call him Mr. Knitpick behind his back, and she was beginning to understand why. The man could not make a decision to save his life . . . or hers.

  Across the table Leroy Yoder raged, threatening the school with everything from a lawsuit to an atomic bomb. He and his wife, Charlene, had come in demanding that their son be allowed to graduate with his class, and nothing either the principal or Skye said seemed to penetrate their anger.

  Homer and the parents had been posturing and snarling for more than an hour, with no sign that they would stop anytime soon.

  Skye watched in hypnotized fascination as a drop of sweat danced on the tip of Leroy’s off-center nose. In Illinois, even the first day of June could have temperatures reaching into the nineties. The underarms of her own blouse were soaked and she squirmed uncomfortably in the plastic chair’s too-small seat. She thought longingly of her morning swim, the last time she’d been truly cool.

  Tucking a loose chestnut-colored curl behind her ear, she narrowed her green eyes and tried once more to intervene, rephrasing what she had been saying over and over again since they had first sat down. “Mr. Yoder, Mr. Knapik and I have told you that whether or not your son graduates is not up to us. It is a matter you must bring up to the school board. Since we have only a week of school left, you need to request a special hearing so you have a decision before graduation night.”

  Homer glared in Skye’s direction and Charlene Yoder hunched farther down in her chair, looking as if she would like to cover her head with her arms.

  Leroy Yoder swung his massive head toward Skye and pinned her with his frenetic stare. “I want my son to graduate. Gus passed all his courses. You got no right to keep him from getting his diploma with everyone else.”

  She felt sorry for these parents. Like many others, they couldn’t let themselves believe that their child could do the awful things of which he was accused. “As Mr. Knapik and I have explained, our handbook states that a student who is in the process of an expulsion is not eligible to participate in any school activities, including graduation. This is a school board policy. We have no choice in the matter.”

  “You people should never’ve started this whole thing. Gus didn’t do nothing wrong,” Leroy shouted.

  “He tried to rape a girl at knifepoint, and was found with drugs in his possession,” Skye stated calmly.

  Charlene Yoder started to speak but was interrupted by her husband, who sprang out of his chair and lunged across the table, bringing his face to within inches of Skye’s. His breath was like a furnace belching rotting eggs, and she unconsciously moved back.

  He grabbed her upper arms and dragged her halfway across the conference table. “My son didn’t touch that girl.” Yoder gave Skye a shake as if to emphasize his point. “The boy didn’t have no weapon.” He shook her again. “And Gus don’t use no drugs.”

  Skye tried desperately to free herself from his grasp. Her breath was coming in shallow gasps and she felt light-headed. She couldn’t get her voice to work.

  Homer seemed paralyzed. Nothing moved, including his eyes.

  After a final shake, she was abruptly dropped back into her chair as Leroy Yoder continued, “The whole business will be thrown out as soon as we get ourselves a hearing.” Ignoring his wife, he stomped out of the room, his words trailing behind him: “Let me make myself clear. Either Gus graduates with the rest of his class or you two don’t see another school year.”

  It was a relief for Skye to return to her office at Scumble River Junior High. She slid down in the chair until she could rest her head on its back. From this angle, all she could see was the stained white ceiling. The odor of ammonia was strong today, brought out by the humidity, but at least she was spared the sight of the battered, mismatched furniture in the claustrophobic six-by-six foot room.

  Skye didn’t dare complain about the conditions. It had taken a minor miracle to get what she had. In the elementary and high schools, she had to scrounge for any open space each time she needed to work with a student. That meant she had to lug any equipment she needed from school to school lik
e a door-to-door salesman. Still, she counted her blessings. She knew of many psychologists who had it worse.

  It was nearly one, but she didn’t want lunch. She was still too upset from the morning’s events at the high school to consider eating. Skye was accustomed to parents whose walls of denial went up like the force field on the Star-ship Enterprise, but the Yoders had no clue that their son was hooked on something, and it wasn’t phonics.

  Even though she’d been gone from Scumble River for many years before her recent return, Skye remembered that the townspeople liked to handle their problems by themselves. Still, she was upset that Homer had refused to call the police on Mr. Yoder, and had forbidden Skye from contacting them. She rubbed her bruised upper arms and shivered. Yoder had clearly assaulted her and threatened them both.

  After brooding for a bit, Skye remembered the emergency chocolate bar she had stashed away for just such an occasion. In one smooth motion she snatched her key ring, turned toward the file cabinet, and retrieved the candy.

  She was just peeling back the silver wrapper of a Kit Kat when the PA blared. “Ms. Denison, please report to the office. Ms. Denison, please report to the office.”

  Skye reluctantly rewrapped the bar and tucked it into her skirt pocket. Why did everything always have to happen on a Monday?

  The junior high’s new principal, Neva Llewellyn, paced outside her door. She had held the job only since September, having been promoted from high school guidance counselor when the previous principal was forced to leave unexpectedly. For some reason, the Scumble River School District had great difficulty holding on to its employees.

  “What’s up?” Skye asked as she stopped in front of Neva.

  “It’s Cletus Doozier.”

  “Junior’s brother?”

  “Cousin. His father, Hap, and Junior’s father, Earl, are brothers.”

  “I got to know Earl and Junior pretty well last fall. They really helped me out.” She smiled wryly. “That’s quite a family.”

  Neva wrinkled her nose. “Wait until you meet Hap. The cheese slid off his cracker long ago.”

  “Wonderful. Is that his real name?”

  “Far as we know.”

  Sighing, Skye asked, “So, what’s up with Cletus?”

  “He’s got a black eye and bruises all along the side of his face.”

  Skye drew a sharp breath and winced. “Did he say what happened?”

  Neva put her hand on the knob. “Says his father beat him up.”

  Skye closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head sadly, then gestured for Neva to open the door. She entered the office and looked at the eleven-year-old sitting at the table coloring. He was small for his age, and his feet dangled above the floor. The left side of his face was entirely black and blue.

  She pulled up the other chair. “Hi, Cletus, my name’s Ms. Denison. My job is to talk to kids who need help or have something bothering them. Would you tell me what happened to you?”

  “Dad beat on me again last night.” Cletus didn’t raise his head from his drawing.

  She knew better than to try and touch him. Abused children didn’t like to be handled. “Has this happened before?”

  “Yeah, usually when he’s drunk. But this time I thought he was gonna kill me.” Cletus stared at her with dead eyes.

  Skye kept her face expressionless with great effort. Pity was the last thing this child would accept. “Cletus, I have to call and report this. Then someone else will want to talk to you. In the meantime, I’m going to get the nurse to look at you. Okay?”

  He nodded without emotion and went back to his coloring.

  After closing the door, Skye asked Neva to locate the school nurse and fill her in. Then she found Cletus’s cumulative folder and sat down to call the Department of Children and Family Services to report the abuse.

  She was surprised when DCFS said they would have a caseworker at the school within the hour and would talk to the parent immediately afterward. It was usually the next day before they sent someone. Skye shrugged. They must be under investigation again.

  After Skye completed her call, Neva came over and sat on the edge of the desk. “Be prepared. Hap is not going to take this peacefully.”

  Skye reached into her pocket and retrieved the Kit Kat bar. Its smooth chocolate surface felt soothing under her fingertips. She broke it down the middle and handed Neva half. Both women took bites. The afternoon was shaping up to be as bad as the morning had been.

  The three o’clock sun beat down hotly as Skye walked toward the parking lot thinking about buying a new car. She had to make a decision. She’d been borrowing her grandmother’s for nine months and that wasn’t right, even if Antonia couldn’t use it anymore. Skye’s Impala had been totaled last fall. Luckily she had walked away without a scratch.

  A voice interrupted her thoughts: “Skye! Skye Denison, is that you?”

  Skye looked to the left and spotted a woman hurrying across the grassy area that separated the senior from the junior high school. Oh, no, it’s someone else I should remember but don’t. She hated hurting peoples’ feelings by admitting she didn’t recognize them. It was tough to be back in her hometown after having been gone for twelve years.

  As the woman got closer, the breeze ruffled her short brown hair from its smooth caplike style and played with the hem of her simple gray knit dress. Everything about her seemed familiar, but it was her expression that finally struck a spark of recognition in Skye. Her open features bore a look of good humor and high spirits.

  “Oh my God, Trixie Bensen! What are you doing in Scumble River?” Skye grabbed her old friend and gave her a big hug. Trixie and her family had moved away during the girls’ sophomore year.

  Hugging Skye back, Trixie said, “My husband bought the old Cherry farm a few months ago. I’m interviewing for a job at the high school.” She took both of Skye’s hands and stepped back to look at her. “How about you? Don’t tell me you live in town. You vowed never to settle down here.”

  By unspoken agreement the women moved to a concrete bench along the sidewalk.

  Skye sat with one leg tucked beneath her and said, “Well, I did manage to escape for quite a while. I went to the University of Illinois, then spent several years in Dominica serving in the Peace Corps. After that I attended graduate school and did my internship in Louisiana, and spent a year working in New Orleans.”

  “Wow! So how did you get back here?”

  “Oh, last year I had a little trouble with my supervisor and ended up breaking up with my fiancé, so I needed a place to recoup. I’ll look for another job in a year or so, once I get a good evaluation.”

  Trixie patted her hand. “I’m so sorry for all the bad stuff.” She grinned. “But this is too cool. We’re together again.”

  “Tell me what happened since you moved. Why didn’t you write me back?” Skye frowned, remembering how hurt she had been when she never received a reply to her letters.

  “When we moved to Rockford, my parents had a misguided idea that I would adjust better if I didn’t have any reminders of Scumble River, so they never gave me any mail. They never told me until I was getting ready to move back here.”

  “Well, that explains a lot.”

  Trixie screwed up her face and shook her head. “Parents.”

  “So tell me the rest.”

  “Okay, it’s not very exciting. I finished high school in Rockford. Went to Illinois State for my B.A. and then got my master’s in library science from the University of Illinois. I married Owen Frayne right out of college and we’ve been renting a farm in Sterling until we could save enough to buy our own. And voilà, here we are.” Trixie beamed.

  “You might be just in time. A lot of farmland is being purchased by developers who are gambling that Scumble River will become the next satellite suburb of Chicago.”

  “Boy, I’ll bet people around here are hot on that subject.”

  “Lots of fighting going on between neighbors, and even between fathers and
sons.”

  Trixie frowned. “That’s a shame. Is your family thinking of selling?”

  “No. Grandma Leofanti would rather die than sell an inch of her land.”

  “That’s good. Does she still make those fantastic apple slices?”

  A look of sadness crossed Skye’s face. “No, I’m afraid not. She’s still strong as an ox physically, but her mind’s not too good for recent stuff, and she forgets to take care of herself sometimes. Around Christmas the family hired someone to live in and make sure she’s okay.”

  “That’s too bad. She was such a fun person. So outspoken. And a real feminist. She always seemed ahead of her time. More modern than your aunts.” Trixie was silent for a moment. “Did you have trouble finding someone to take care of her? We sure did when Owen’s mother was sick.”

  Skye nodded. “Yeah, we finally had to hire someone from an agency in Chicago. They supply women fresh off the boat from Poland. Mrs. Jankowski, the one we have now, seems okay, but she speaks very little English and that can’t be good for Grandma. Plus, she doesn’t drive, so she and Grandma are both stuck on the farm unless someone picks them up.”

  “It makes you scared to get old. Maybe that’s why people stop going to visit the elderly. They see their own future and can’t stand it.” Trixie shuddered.

  “At first I sort of felt that way,” Skye admitted. “But then Grandma started telling me the family history. She’d never talk about the past before, so I’m finding out a lot about my family. We’re up to her first year of marriage. Grandpa was not her only fiancé. The first guy got killed in an auto accident. Sounds to me like she married Grandpa on the rebound. I stop by almost every day after school. Actually, that’s where I’m heading when I leave here.”