Murder of a Small-Town Honey

'That's odd. Even if the motor court isn't doing too well, I always had the impression that Uncle Charlie had money from other investments.'

'Me, too. But when I asked, he said he couldn't help me, he didn't have that kind of cash. What was I going to do— call him a liar?' He slumped back in his chair.

'Gee, I'm sorry, Vince, but I'm broke. My salary last year barely covered my living expenses. Would I be back in Scumble River if I had any cash?'

They sat in silence for a while, each trying to figure a way to get the money.

Finally Skye stood up. 'I have an idea, but I don't know if it will work and I really hate to do it.'

Vince looked at her imploringly. 'I'm going to lose the shop if I can't meet the mortgage.'

'Well, the only thing I have that's really worth anything is Grandma Leofanti's emerald ring. I could try to get a loan with it as collateral.'

He buried his head in his hands. His heavily muscled chest heaved as he took a deep breath. 'I'm quite a big brother, aren't I? Maybe next time I'll try stealing candy from a baby.'

'Don't ever be ashamed to ask for help,' Skye rushed to reassure him. 'I only wish I had it to give. I'll try to find out by Wednesday if I can get a loan. Will that be too late?'

'If the answer is yes, it will be just in time. If the answer is no, time doesn't matter.'

CHAPTER 7

If You Could Read My Mind

It was nearly six that evening when Skye walked out of Vince's salon and headed toward her parents' house. She drove back down Maryland Street, and as she approached the Basin Street crossroad the signal turned red.

'The only stoplight in town, and I never manage to catch it on green,' Skye grumbled to herself.

Looking down Scumble River's main drag, Skye noted an unfamiliar sign, Young at Heart Photography. She fig­ured it must be Mike Young's studio—the one her aunt had mentioned Saturday.

Up and down the street were banners promoting the now-passed Chokeberry Days, but something had been added since they were originally hung. Each pennant had been hand-painted with a red circle and a line bisecting it, the international sign for no.

The light changed and she drove on, easing around the sharp curve after Webster Drive. She turned right onto County Line Road. Her parents' farm was about a mile east off the paved road.

Skye could hardly believe she was back. She had spent her whole adult life putting distance between herself and Scumble River. She went so far as to join the Peace Corps after graduating from college, and spent four years in Dominica, a tiny island in the Caribbean. But a single stubborn decision and all her plans were wiped out. It had taken only one long, emotional call home to get her

reestablished here in town. Mothers sometimes worked in mysterious ways.

Smiling ruefully, she mused, / was certainly eager enough to come home this time. Well, ready or not, I'm back where I started. At least my parents are happy I'm here.

The tires crunching the white pea gravel on her parents' well-tended lane interrupted her thoughts. Her father, Jed, was on his riding mower finishing up their acre of grass. When he spotted Skye he took off his blue- and-white polka-dotted cap and waved it in the air, revealing a steel-gray crew cut, faded brown eyes, and a tanned, leathery face.

On the step near the back patio, she noticed her mother's concrete goose dressed in a bikini with sunglasses perched on its beak and a bow on top of its head. It was usually at­tired in holiday garb, but with the Fourth of July long past and Halloween nearly two months away, this must have been the best her mom could do. Skye quickly checked out the trio of plaster deer to make sure they weren't similarly costumed.

Returning her father's wave, she went in the back door of the red-brick ranch-style house. The large kitchen was bisected by a counter edged with two stools. Its pristine cel­ery-colored walls looked as if they'd been painted just that morning, and the matching linoleum glistened with a fresh coat of wax.

Her mother, May, stood at the sink, cleaning sweet com. First she tore off the outer husks, then scrubbed the corn silk away with a vegetable brush. Despite her fifty-five years and short stature, May's athletic build reminded Skye of the cheerleader her mother once was. The few pounds she had gained since high school did not detract from this image.

The first words out of her mother's mouth were, 'Hope you're hungry: Supper's almost ready.' To May, food

equaled love, and no further words of affection needed to be spoken.

Skye noted the time on the green-and-white-flowered wall clock—five minutes after six. 'Isn't it a little late for you guys to be eating dinner?'

'Dad's been up since five-thirty. He's already cut Grandma Leofanti's grass, put new seat covers on the pickup, and will be finishing our lawn in a few minutes. I dispatched from eleven to seven last night at the police sta­tion, then walked my three miles with Hester and Maggie, cleaned up the house, put up twelve quarts of corn, and slept this afternoon. You know we're busy in the summer. We hardly have time to eat.'

Skye knew better than to prolong this conversation. She'd had the same one too many times before. If it went any farther, her mom would start asking what Skye had ac­complished that day—merely going to work would not have met with approval.

Instead, Skye started to set the table. The plates, glasses, and flatware were in the same place they had been for as long as she could remember. She moved the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin holder from the counter to the table.

'What are we having?' Skye asked, peering into the re­frigerator.

'Fried chicken, com on the cob—it's the last of the sea­son—Grandma Denison's rolls, mashed potatoes, and stewed tomatoes.'

Skye grimaced. Stewed tomatoes, the soul food of Scum­ble River. 'It's hard to believe Grandma is still making rolls from scratch at eighty-one. I stopped over there last Friday after school and she was making pies for the Lions Club to sell at Chokeberry Days.'

May stopped stirring long enough to give Skye a sharp look. 'Hard work keeps us all going.'

Seeing that Skye was holding a brown plastic tub, she added, 'Make sure you put out the real butter for Dad. He

won't touch that Country Crock stuff I use for my choles­terol.' May paused and gave Skye another sharp look. 'You better use the Country Crock too, since you're still carrying around all that weight you gained last year.'

Before Skye could respond, the back door slammed. Jed detoured into the tiny half bath off the utility room in order to wash his hands, and came out still carrying the towel. His jeans hung low, accommodating his belly, and his navy T-shirt was sweat-soaked and torn, evidence of his hard day of work.

'Ma, I think this one's had it. You can see right through it, and it won't dry my hands no more.'

Jed held the threadbare towel up to the light.

'Maybe Vince could use it at his shop. I hate to just throw it away.' May walked over and examined the towel critically.

'How many times do I have to tell you? We aren't giv­ing him a thing 'til he gets over this notion of being a hair­dresser. No son of mine is going to do ladies' hair for a living. I've got three hundred acres to farm, and my son won't even help me.'

May started to reply but seemed to think better of it and turned back to the stove to remove ears of sweet corn from boiling water. Jed stomped to his chair. Skye finished putting the food out and joined him at the table. May, carry­ing an enormous platter of chicken, was the last to sit.

They ate silently. Skye brooded, upset because her father still hadn't accepted her brother's choice of occupation and her mother was still nagging her about her weight. It was no use trying to change their minds, and she was tired of ar­guing with them.

Near the end of the meal, Skye's thoughts turned to the murder. 'So, Mom, any news at the police station about Mrs. Gumtree?'

Nodding, May took a sip of her iced tea. 'Yeah, but they're all acting really secretive. I tried to pump Roy last

night, and he just said the chief would have his hide if he blabbed anything.'