Murder of a Small-Town Honey

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.

/ 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.

She tried again. 'You know, my brother owns this place, and I'll bet he has some toys inside you could play with while you're waiting for your mom or dad.'

This time the girl was the one to hurl a rock after giving Skye a defiant look.

Skye examined them carefully and thought of what her favorite professor always said: Understanding works with some kids, but most need structure and consequences.

Determining that these children were of the latter vari­ety, Skye said, 'Stop throwing those stones right now. You're going to break that sign, and your parents will have to pay for it.'

They both looked at her contemptuously and threw a fistful of rocks.

Without another word, she took each by an arm and marched them into the building, undisturbed by their squirming protests.

The door of the salon opened into a waiting area. A woman sprawled in an upholstered wicker chair, her dirty feet propped up on the glass table in front of her. She held a grocery store tabloid inches from her nose.

An archway revealed the styling area, where another woman sat in an elevated chair, shrouded in a plastic cape. Skye quickly sized them up and guided the children toward the one reading the paper.

This woman was in her late twenties and looked like many of Scumble River's young mothers. She had do-it- yourself dyed-blond hair and watery brown eyes. Ignoring the children, she glared at Skye. 'Yeah? What d'ya want?'

'Are these your children?' Skye met her stare with a neutral look.

'Yeah. You got a problem with that?' The woman's voice became more strident, and she stuck out her chin.

In response, Skye made her speech more formal. 'They were throwing rocks at the glass sign outside. I'm sure you

do not want to incur the cost of replacing it. I believe the price to be nearly two thousand dollars.'

'You blaming my kids?' She shot out of her chair and put her face within inches of Skye's.

Skye took a step back. 'No. I'm blaming you for how you're raising them.'

The woman's eyes darted rapidly around the room. 'Who do you think you are? The police?'

'Simply a concerned citizen.' Skye paused for effect. 'But I'd be happy to call the police if you prefer to deal with them.'

The woman swept her belongings into a large, discol­ored straw purse and slid her feet into rubber thongs. Her face wore an ill-tempered expression. 'I don't have to take this. I'm telling Vince.'

Skye smiled and crossed her arms. 'Please do. I'm sure my brother will be interested to hear why you allow your children to damage his property.'

Huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf, the woman appeared to see the children for the first time. She snatched them away from Skye and jerked them toward the door. 'Junior, Bambi, get away from her.' Tugging at the crotch of her denim shorts, her halter top exposing a large expanse of chalk-white skin, she spun back toward Skye. 'You keep your hands off my kids.'

Skye lifted both hands, palms forward. 'My pleasure.'

As the woman scuttled out, dragging the children behind her, the little boy looked back at Skye. His smile appeared victorious, and she realized that he had gotten exactly what he wanted: his mother's attention.

The banging of the door brought Vince hurrying from the shampoo area. His long butterscotch-blond hair was tied in a ponytail, and there were beads of sweat above his emerald-green eyes. Through the window in the door he saw his customer's retreating form. 'What did you do to Glenda Doozier?'

'Told her the truth.'

Skye marveled at how out-of-place Vince looked for Scumble River. Dressed in chinos, a blue chambray shirt, and boat shoes without socks, he could have just stepped off a movie set.

In contrast, she'd summed up the town years ago by ex­plaining that there are white-collar communities and blue-collar communities, but Scumble River is a no-collar community. Consequently, the rednecks could be identified without obstruction.

Brother and sister stared at each other for a few seconds before Vince made the first move, as he always had since they were children, gathering her into a hug. 'What have you done to yourself?'

Feeling uncomfortable, Skye plucked at her shorts and shirt. 'What do you mean? I know I need a trim. That's one of the reasons I stopped by.'

He shook his head. 'No, I mean your weight. How much have you gained?'

'A few pounds, but it's no one's business but my own. I admit I'm calorically challenged, but I've decided to exit from the diet roller coaster.'

Vince held her at arm's length and examined her. 'But, Skye, you have such a pretty face. You can't let yourself go like that.'

Skye stood tall. 'Let's get this straight once and for all. The decision has been made. I am tired of eating less than eight hundred calories a day. This is my natural weight. I stopped dieting right after Christmas and have been where I am since April. This is what they call my set point.'

'Does this have anything to do with breaking up with your fiance?' Vince questioned.

'No. And I've told you I don't want to talk about him— ever.'

'Look, I know keeping thin hasn't been easy for you, but what will people say?'

'I can't believe you would care what people say, Vince. Haven't I always accepted you for yourself? Who has al­ways defended you to Mom and Dad? I've never asked you to get a more masculine job so people won't talk. How can you do less for me?'

Vince had the grace to look chagrined. 'You're right, Sis. It was just such a surprise. I guess you still look pretty good. At least you filled out in most of the right places.'

'Thanks a lot. I know some people won't think I look good unless I become anorexic, but I'm finished obsessing about my weight. End of discussion.'

'Okay, okay. Since I seem to have an unexpected can­cellation, I can cut your hair as soon as I finish with