Murder of a Small-Town Honey

almost every male in Scumble River was attracted to her.'

'She and I were through by the time Vince started dating her,' Mike said. 'In fact, I think it was my idea that he ask her out.'

Once again Vince muttered to himself, 'It was not.'

'It seems that no one went with her for very long,' Skye said. 'I was told she was always after greener pastures. Why did you break up with her, Mike?' Skye looked him in the eye.

He got up from the bench, stepped over to the door, and peered inside. 'I wonder if we're getting close to a table? Maybe I should check.'

Smiling, she patted the vacant spot next to her. 'Oh, that's not necessary. The time goes fast when you're having a nice conversation.'

Reluctantly, Mike sat back down.

'Mike, you were going to tell us about your breakup with Honey,' Skye reminded him after a few moments of silence.

'Why are you so interested in a past romance? Not jeal­ous, are you?' Mike put his arm around Skye's shoulder.

'No, you moron,' Abby suddenly broke in. 'She's try­ing to figure out who killed Honey Adair, and you're one of her suspects.'

'Talking to a man in that manner is why you're still sin­gle, Abby.' Mike smiled cruelly.

Abby's face mirrored her fury, but before she could speak Vince whispered something in her ear. He turned to Mike and Skye. 'We'll be right back.'

After they left, Mike drew Skye closer. 'You really ought to leave the investigating to the police. An innocent young lady like yourself could get hurt asking questions of the wrong people.'

'So, you're not going to answer my question?' She shrugged out of his embrace and scooted to the far side of the bench.

'Is there any reason I shouldn't tell you?' When she didn't respond, he slouched down farther and examined his fingernails. 'She wanted to get married and I didn't. Even tried to tell me she was pregnant—but she couldn't prove it when I confronted her.'

'Why did you sic her on Vince?'

Mike shrugged, unconcerned. 'He always dated such nice girls, I thought it was time he had a taste of the wild side. Now that I've found Jesus, I can see I was wrong. 'There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.' Isaiah, chapter forty-eight, verse twenty-two.'

'Did you find God while you were in prison?' Skye asked pointedly.

'Yes, I did. I'm not ashamed of my past. I learned a trade and was born again.'

'Which church do you belong to, Mike?' Skye looked in the direction Abby and Vince had disappeared.

'The Church of Forgiveness. I founded it myself. You'll have to come to one of our services.'

'Where is it? I don't remember seeing a new church building.'

'It's on Springfield, between Basin and Kinsman.' Mike slid closer to Skye.

She thought a moment. 'Oh, yeah, I know where it is.' She had passed by it one day and wondered about its on-

gins. After all, it's not often that you see a church in a dou­ble-wide trailer. 'When are services?'

'Tuesdays at seven and Sunday at eight. Why don't you come this Tuesday?'

'I certainly will... if I'm free.' Right after I dye my hair black and get a tattoo,

'You should come. It would help you after your awful experience.' Mike took her hand.

Skye wasn't sure which awful experience he was refer­ring to but guessed. 'You mean when I found Honey's body?'

'Yes, that must have been awful for you. I'll bet you dropped everything and ran out screaming.'

'Well, actually, I was pretty calm when it was happen­ing. I didn't have my breakdown until afterward.'

'Did you see anything?' Mike didn't seem upset when Skye withdrew her hand from his grasp.

'No. I was inside the trailer for less than a minute. I didn't have time to look around.'

'Sometimes we see things without them registering right away.'

'I guess so, but like I said, I was there for such a short time and I didn't touch anything but Honey.'

Mike put his arm back around her shoulders and squeezed hard. 'Let's hope the murderer believes that.'

CHAPTER 17

Lonely Street

Saturday morning, thanks to the school district's lack of a social worker, Skye found herself driving in and around the outskirts of Scumble River. While attempting to get the special education files in order, she had discovered several with no telephone numbers and only sketchy addresses. All but one family had proved to be accessible through neigh­bors or relations.

Earl Doozier, Jr., needed a reevaluation. In order for this testing to take place, Skye needed a signed Consent for As­sessment form. Parents couldn't be asked for a signature if they were unreachable, and since the Dooziers had no tele­phone number and an iffy address, obtaining permission would require the dreaded home visit.

As she drove up and down streets, searching for the cor­rect address, Skye thought of an assembly she had attended her senior year in high school. The speaker talked about the history of the town. Most of the other students were bored, but Skye had been enthralled. It was the only time she had found anything interesting about Scumble River, and what the man had said remained clear in her memory even now.

She could still hear his voice weaving the story of the community's establishment. 'The town of Scumble River was originally built in the eighteen-thirties in the fork be­tween the two branches of the Scumble River. Since then it has spread along both banks. Some might say overflowed.

'Railroad tracks encircle the village. They creep up from

the south and curve west before continuing north. As you all may have noticed, it's often possible while driving through Scumble River to be stopped twice by the same train.

'Consisting of the six blocks that run along Basin Street, the center of town is like the yolk of an egg. To the west of this area, houses were built in the nineteen-thirties by Ital­ian immigrants who were imported by the Sherman Coal Company.

'When the mines played out in the late sixties, most of the initial settlers were ready to retire. Their offspring, hav­ing served in World War II and the Korean conflict, had gained other skills and worked in the factories springing up in nearby towns. Thus the closing of the mines had little ef­fect on the local economy.

'Children of those coal miners built their fifties-style ranch houses both north and south of Scumble River's core, surrounding it like the egg white.

'On the extreme west there is still farmland, owned chiefly by the descendants of the first farmers, who arrived from Sweden at approximately the same time that Italians were pouring into the area. Most acreage is still being worked by the original families. But with fewer and fewer children and less interest in agriculture, this too is begin­ning to change.

'Two groups of people live in an uneasy alliance along the river. A few years ago, people from the city discovered Scumble River and decided to build summer cottages or re­tirement homes along its south bank. While this 'outside' interest served to line the pockets of some citizens, it in­vaded the privacy of others. Here is the shell of the egg, and it's starting to crack.

'The original group of people who have always lived along the river are known as Red Raggers to the locals. No one seems sure how this term came into being, but it is def­initely disparaging.'

It had been more than twelve years since Skye heard that speech, but she remembered every word. She was thinking about the way the talk had ended as she slowly steered her Impala down Cattail Path, deep in Red Ragger territory.

The man had said, 'These are not folks who appreciate uninvited guests.'

Skye squinted at the faded names on rusty mailboxes. When she saw a redheaded boy who looked vaguely famil­iar, she stopped the car and leaned out the window. 'Hi. Do you know where the Dooziers live?'

'Yep.' The boy continued bouncing his ball.

'Great. Where?'

'Said I knew, didn't say I'd tell you.'