Murder of a Small-Town Honey Page 5

  With that statement Lloyd walked away, saying over his shoulder, “You two talk, I’ll see you both at the PPS meeting tomorrow.”

  “Wait—we haven’t even discussed my duties yet.” Before Skye could follow, Lloyd closed his office door.

  His voice came from behind the glass panel. “Talk to my secretary. She’ll give you a schedule. I’ll be busy the rest of the day.”

  Skye stared after him as if she were waking from a nightmare, and then turned to Abby, hoping for a friendly reaction. “Tell me this is unusual for him. He’s under a lot of pressure, right?”

  Abby looked Skye over before indicating that she should take a seat on the cot. “No, I’m afraid he’s always like that.”

  Skye examined Abby carefully. She was everything Skye would like to be—five feet ten and built like an athlete. Her white skirt showed off her tanned, muscular legs to advantage and was paired with a tucked-in navy polo shirt and spotless white tennis shoes. More striking than pretty, she was the kind of woman who would fit in better at a health club than a cocktail party. Skye knew her brother had been going out with Abby, and now she understood why—Vince always had been attracted to physical perfection.

  As silence once again threatened to engulf her, Skye wondered if everyone in this school was the quiet type. Scrambling for a topic of conversation, she searched the bare walls for inspiration. Finding none, she remarked, “So, you’re dating my brother?”

  Hearing no response, Skye leaned forward. “Vince, Vince Denison is my brother.”

  “Yes, I know.” Abby tucked a strand of long white-blond hair behind her tortoiseshell headband.

  Rearranging her skirt and smoothing her own hair, Skye waited for Abby to continue. When she didn’t speak, and gave no indication that she intended to, Skye scooted toward the end of the cot. “Have you worked here long?”

  Abby nodded. Set against the fairness of her brows and lashes, her large aquamarine eyes dominated her face.

  Smiling her encouragement, Skye waited, although Abby’s persistent silence was beginning to get on her nerves. Abby did not look up; instead she began filing her nails.

  Skye waited a while longer, then stood up. “It is obvious to me, that despite Lloyd’s suggestion that we talk, that we have very little to say to each other. I think it would be best if I left you to your busy schedule.” At this Skye stared significantly at the empty desktop.

  She paused with her hand on the knob. “Sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

  Abruptly, Abby burst out laughing. Skye was sure this was going to be her first nutcase at her new job and was frantically trying to recall how to react to hysteria.

  Before Skye could act, Abby regained her composure. “Boy, Vince really has you pegged.”

  “Pardon me?” Skye responded stiffly.

  “Chill. Sit back down. Relax. Vince told me nothing would drive you crazier than for me not to talk to you.” Abby got up and tried to take Skye by the arm.

  “What?” She shook off Abby’s hand.

  “Vince said that ever since you were children everyone has always confided in you. He claimed even strangers come up and spill their guts.”

  “So?”

  “When he asked me to test out his theory, I figured, What the heck? What would you do if I didn’t respond as you’re used to having people respond? If someone you were expecting to be friendly wasn’t? Vince knew you’d either get angry or cry. He thought you’d get angry; I voted for cry.”

  “You’re telling me you were willing to make me cry just to test out my brother’s silly theory? That’s a pretty sadistic thing to do to someone you don’t even know. I’ve always suspected that nurses enjoyed giving those painful injections.” Skye held her temper with great difficulty.

  Abby patted Skye’s knee. “You’re right, of course. It was a mean joke, and I apologize. I guess I wasn’t thinking about it from your point of view. I’m not very good about putting myself in other people’s shoes. But do you realize how hard it is on Vince, being the brother of Miss Perfect?”

  “Now what are you talking about?” Skye’s head was beginning to ache.

  “Don’t be modest. You were a straight-A student, never got into any trouble. You not only went to college but also to graduate school, not to mention your noble sacrifice when you joined the Peace Corps. Let’s face it—you are everyone’s darling, and now you’ve moved back home. How would you like to be the older, less successful sibling?”

  Skye shook her head. It felt odd to be described as successful. True, she had done well at the University of Illinois—only a hundred miles away from Scumble River, but light-years from it in terms of lifestyle.

  But her stint in the Peace Corps was not the noble sacrifice that Abby described. Instead it had been a place to hide when she couldn’t face coming home to Scumble River and found there were no jobs for someone with a bachelor’s degree in psychology. And graduate school had been two years of being made to feel never quite good enough.

  This was followed by a year of internship—something akin to being an indentured servant. Not to mention being fired from her first job for insubordination and being jilted shortly afterward by a fiancé who was more in love with his own social standing than with her.

  “My brother thinks of himself as unsuccessful?” Skye allowed herself to be led back to the cot. “I had no idea. I’m sure a great psychologist,” she said sarcastically. “I don’t even know what my own brother is thinking.”

  “Vince is hard to read. He turns on the charm if he thinks you’re getting too close. Besides, how often have you seen him since you moved away?”

  “You’re right. A lot of things seem to have changed in the twelve years I’ve been gone. Maybe it’s a good thing I came back after all.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Suspicious Minds

  Later that afternoon, the door to Skye’s office banged open and Lloyd entered the room. “Well, you certainly have managed to make yourself comfortable. I suppose you’ll want a couch and your own coffee machine next.” He examined the desk, chair, and file cabinet closely. “None of our other psychologists had an office to themselves. They took whatever room wasn’t in use when they stopped by.”

  Skye bit her tongue, counted to twenty, and breathed deeply—all the while trying to refrain from explaining that perhaps that was one of the reasons they had such trouble keeping support staff, such as social workers and psychologists.

  Instead she made herself smile. “Yes, I want to thank you for all your help. The other schools seemed unable to assist me.” She was very proud of herself when no trace of sarcasm leaked out.

  Lloyd puffed out his chest. “I’m the one to see in this district if you need something. Those other two principals don’t have the influence I have. The superintendent and I are fishing buddies, you know.” He completely disregarded the fact that he had done nothing. The secretaries had arranged everything.

  Once Lloyd left, Skye spent some time organizing the confidential special education files she had found. The search had turned out to be more like a scavenger hunt than the simple task she was expecting. After being directed to at least ten different locations, she finally located the folders in the basement next to the cleaning supplies. They were moist and smelled like a mixture of mold, pine scent, and lemon.

  Taking the records from their damp cardboard boxes, Skye put them into her new file cabinet, stopping now and then to separate pages that were sticking together. They completely filled one drawer and part of the second. She didn’t attempt to read them, but was content with putting them into some recognizable order . . . like alphabetical.

  After an hour of sorting out the records of the students currently enrolled in the Scumble River Junior High special education program, she looked at her watch and realized she hadn’t been back to talk to Darleen. She stuffed the remaining folders into the cabinet, locked it, and hurried to the special ed room. She arrived just in time to find Darleen locking the door.

/>   Skye apologized, and they made another appointment, for the next day during Darleen’s planning period. Darleen seemed relieved that she didn’t have to talk to Skye that day after all.

  It was nearly five that afternoon, and Skye had finished up at school only half an hour ago. She rested her hip casually against the registration desk of the Up A Lazy River Motor Court and scanned the small office, noting that little had changed in the years she’d been away. The walls were still painted a drab brown, the desktop was still scarred and in need of refinishing, and the only chair remained occupied by her honorary Uncle Charlie, who was busy barking orders into the phone.

  When she had first arrived, Charlie’s gray color and rapid breathing had scared her. He’d just been ending a telephone call when Skye walked through the door, and she heard something about paying someone some money by Friday. She had tried to ask what was going on, but the phone rang again, and Charlie had been on one call or another ever since.

  At least his color was better and he seemed more like his usual self—aggravated, headed toward infuriated, possibly not stopping until he hit fully enraged. “We are not refunding the parade entrants’ fees. Check the contract the carnival people signed. No refunds for an act of God.” He listened for a few seconds. “And I say murder is covered under that clause.”

  The window air conditioner labored in an attempt to keep the tiny room cool. When Skye had driven past the Scumble River First National Bank, the thermometer read ninety-one degrees. The humidity hung like used plastic wrap.

  Skye dug into her purse until she found a coated rubber band. She gathered her hair into a thick ponytail and narrowed her green eyes against the smoke from Charlie’s cigar. Tapping her fingernails on the counter, she waited for him to hang up.

  He pounded on the desk and yelled, “Then check with your goddamn lawyer! Why in the hell did you call me in the first place?”

  Charlie banged down the phone and ran sausagelike fingers through his thick white hair, then heaved himself out of the battered wooden swivel chair and swooped Skye into a bear hug.

  Intense blue eyes under bushy white brows scrutinized her face. “Are you okay with what happened yesterday? Everyone treating you right? Anyone bothering you, just let me know, and I’ll take care of them. Nobody better mess with my goddaughter.”

  She was breathless, but returned his hug. “Uncle Charlie, you haven’t changed a bit. I’m fine. They’re all being nice to me. I just wanted to thank you again. I don’t know what I’d have done without this job.”

  Releasing her, he settled back down into the creaking chair. “We should thank you. We’ve been trying to hire a school psychologist since the middle of last year. The last one we had up and quit in November. Said we weren’t paying enough for the amount of problems he had to deal with. And you know we’ve never been able to keep a social worker—they say we’re too primitive.”

  Skye frowned. “What kind of problems was he referring to?”

  “We never could figure that out. Sure, we’ve got our share of troubles. Usually at least one suicide or drowning a year, child abuse, family feuds . . . but that goes on everywhere, right?”

  Her one year of experience had ended with her being fired, so she was hardly an expert on what was usual. Not wanting to talk about her last job, Skye answered evasively, “Guess I’ll find out soon enough. Maybe being from town will help.”

  Sighing, she leaned her forearms against the desk. “So, tell me all the gossip. What’s this about Mrs. Gumtree really being only in her thirties?”

  “Everybody is sure talking about this murder, but no one is saying anything. It was a terrible thing, you finding her like that. We don’t want anyone thinking that you’re a witness or anything, so you make sure everyone knows you didn’t see a thing when you were in that trailer. You didn’t see anything, right?”

  “Nope. But everyone sure is interested in what I didn’t see.”

  “Good. You make sure you tell everyone you didn’t see anything and you don’t know anything.” Charlie shook his finger in her face.

  “Sure.” Skye shrugged. “What do you know about her? I never heard of Mrs. Gumtree before all this happened.”

  “She was just a character actress on a children’s television show.”

  “Funny, I haven’t heard about her from the kids.”

  “Her show, Mrs. Gumtree’s Gumdrop Lane, is only on in the Chicago area.” Charlie finished his cigar and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray at his elbow. “But I did hear there was talk of syndication.”

  Skye shrugged, losing interest. “Do they have any idea who killed her?”

  “The police chief is still trying to get in touch with her agent or someone from that TV station. It seems they all went away for the weekend.”

  She reached for the motor court’s register. “Gee, I wonder if any of them weekended in Scumble River.”

  “Mike Young says it’s gotta be someone from Chicago, like her publicist or personal manager. He says all those show business people are sinners and abominations in the eyes of God.” Charlie slid the ledger out of her grasp and into his desk drawer.

  “When did he become God’s messenger? The week before I left town, he was sent to prison for dealing drugs. Now he dresses like a lawyer and talks like a TV evangelist.”

  “You’re way behind. Mike only spent eighteen months in prison. He’s been out over ten years. He’s hardworking and God-fearing now.” Charlie sat back, thinking out loud. “Why, Mike’s active in his church and makes a good living. That other stuff was just wild oats when he was a teenager.”

  “I really don’t remember him very well. He was a friend of Vince’s from high school, but they were four years ahead of me. Do you know anything about his jail time, or was it kept a secret?”

  “Skye, honey, you been away too long if you think there isn’t a person in Scumble River who doesn’t know every last detail. There are no secrets here.”

  “Except for the murderer’s identity,” Skye said quietly. Moving closer to Charlie, she asked, “Who do you think killed her?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I thought I saw the principal of the junior high, Lloyd Stark, hanging around her dressing room yesterday. I only saw him from the back, so I didn’t get a good look. Of course, I’m probably not a very good judge because I just plain don’t like him.” Charlie put his arm around her.

  “Wonderful. That should make my job easy, since he knows you were behind my getting hired.”

  “He won’t give you any trouble. He knows I won’t put up with any bull. In fact, you could do me a little favor.”

  “What?” Skye crossed her arms and backed away.

  “Hey, don’t be like that. I get the feeling all is not right with Lloyd. He’s hiding something from the school board. I want you to nose around and let me know if you hear or see anything suspicious.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Charlie, you’re skeptical of anyone who has a different opinion than yours. I can’t spy on my new principal.”

  “Don’t think of it as spying. Think of it as being a good listener and an intense observer. Kind of like the job description of a psychologist, isn’t it?” Charlie walked her to the door.

  Skye’s smile was sickly. She had forgotten how convoluted small-town politics could get.

  Even for the end of August in Illinois, it was sweltering. During the day the sun had beat mercilessly on the blacktop of the motor court’s parking lot, turning the asphalt into glue. Skye’s T-shirt stuck to her back. She felt her sandals being sucked almost off her feet with each step as she walked across the empty lot toward her blue Chevy Impala with patchwork fenders and a crumpled hood. God, she hated that car—ugliest thing in three counties.

  Skye noticed that the Brown Bag Liquor Store across Maryland Street was enjoying a brisk business. It hunkered on the river embankment like a malevolent toadstool.

  In high school her classmates had often dared each other to go in and try to convince its
owner, creepy old Fayanne Emerick, that they were old enough to buy beer. Skye never made the attempt, preferring even then not to take chances. She was still faintly uneasy about entering that building, always having pictured underage teens tied to medieval torture devices in the back room.

  The car’s black interior was blistering hot. Before gingerly sliding behind the wheel, Skye pulled the legs of her shorts down as far as they would go, in order to cover the backs of her thighs, while making sure the bottom of her plain white T-shirt extended past the waistband. As always, the car started smoothly and idled perfectly. She rolled down all the windows—it had no air-conditioning—and put the transmission into drive.

  I wish the damn thing would die so I wouldn’t feel like it was such a waste of money to buy a new one, Skye thought as she turned left on Maryland. Her brother’s hair salon, Great Expectations, was the second building to the right after the bridge. This was the first time Skye had seen Vince since Christmas. He’d been out of town when she arrived last week, and with the Chokeberry Days excitement she hadn’t been able to catch up with him over the weekend.

  As Skye turned into the gravel lot, she saw two children hurling stones at the glass sign in front of the building. She got out of the car and strolled toward them.

  They did not acknowledge her presence or stop their rock throwing. The boy looked to be about eight and the girl a year or so younger. Both were wearing grimy shorts, dirty tank tops, and sullen expressions.

  She squatted between them. “Hi. It’s pretty boring around here, isn’t it?”

  Glancing at her as if she were something he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe, the boy selected the biggest stone from his pile and threw it as hard as he could. Skye heard the sound of glass cracking but could see no damage . . . yet.