Murder of a Small-Town Honey

'I thought the white granite one with the gold letters looked nice.' Skye swallowed a lump in her throat. She sometimes forgot how alone Charlie really was.

He nodded. 'Me too. We could put a gold star on it, and it would be like her dressing room door.'

'What would you like on the stone besides the star?' Simon asked.

'Her name and the dates of her birth and death.' Charlie turned to Skye. 'It seems like there should be a saying or something.'

Skye thought a moment and then smiled softly. 'How about: And throughout all Eternity 1 forgive you, you for­give me.'

Simon looked at her, a surprised expression on his face. 'That's beautiful. I guess I need to hire you as my epitaph consultant.'

'It's Blake. I have a minor in English,' Skye answered, disconcerted by Simon's approval.

'That's perfect. Honey caused a lot of heartache while she was on this Earth, but that don't give anyone the right to kill her. Now they can all forgive each other.' Charlie reached across Simon and patted Skye's hand.

Simon put his pile of books in his briefcase and pulled out an appointment book. 'When would you like to sched­ule the service?'

'I'm not having any wake, and I want the funeral on this coming Monday. It's Labor Day, so most people won't have to take a day off work. Honey didn't have many friends here in Scumble River, so it'll mostly be people paying their respects to me. I don't want to inconvenience them any more than I have to. Her agent said he didn't think many people from Chicago would come.'

'Will we be going to a church?' asked Simon.

'No.' Charlie shook his head. 'She never believed in any of that when she lived with me, and her agent said she hadn't changed. Could you say a few words?'

'Sure, and anyone else who might want to will be wel­come.' Simon added, 'You know it takes a while for the headstone. It won't be ready on Monday.'

Charlie nodded and got up, sticking out his hand. 'Thank you for your time. I appreciate your kindness.'

Simon shook Charlie's hand and picked up his attach^. 'Skye, would you walk out to the car with me?'

'What?' Skye looked at Charlie, puzzled. He nodded slightly. 'Okay, just for a minute.'

After holding the door open for Skye, Simon led the way toward the Lexus. He unlocked the doors and put his things in the backseat. For once he seemed at a loss for words. 'Ah, Skye, I was wondering—ah, I mean, if you're not busy, would you like to go out tomorrow? We could go to brunch.'

'You've got to be kidding.' The words flew out of Skye's mouth before she could stop them.

He raised an eyebrow. 'I beg your pardon?'

'As well you should. What makes you think I would want to go out with you after the way you acted in the store Thursday night?'

'I really didn't do anything wrong at the supermarket.' Before Skye could reply, he hurried on. 'But I am sorry if my conduct caused you any distress. Truce?'

Skye was not by any means completely satisfied by this equivocation. She might forgive his caddish demeanor, but it wouldn't be forgotten.

She opened her mouth to dismiss him, but before she could speak his golden eyes bored into hers and she forgot what she was going to say.

Taking her hand, Simon held it between both of his. 'I'd really like to get to know you better. I promise to be on my best behavior. Please come to brunch with me tomorrow.'

'Yes, I'd like that.' Skye was tempted to look around to see who had said that. She certainly had not intended to go out with him. She found him obnoxious, didn't she?

'You're probably wondering why Sunday brunch.' Simon's thumb made lazy circles on her palm.

His touch made her feel light-headed, and she fought to keep her voice even. 'A little.'

'I generally have funerals Friday and Saturday, but since

no one gets buried on Sunday I can always count on that day off.'

'That makes sense.'

Simon let go of her hand. 'Great. Is ten all right?'

'Fine. I'll see you then.' She felt strangely bereft when he got into his car and drove off.

As Skye walked back into Charlie's, her mind cleared and she firmly pushed away the memory of Simon's touch. By the time she reached the door, she had almost convinced herself that what she had felt wasn't real.

She found Charlie standing by the bookshelves, holding a slim black volume in his hands. The cover was graced by a giant red scorpion.

'What do you have there, Uncle Charlie?' Skye looked over his shoulder.

'It's Honey's yearbook. I found it stuck inside another book when I was straightening out the mess from Wednes­day. Look at all the people who signed it.'

Skye took the book from his hands and idly leafed through it. Suddenly she stopped. There, on the page show­ing the pictures of the faculty, right below Lloyd Stark's photograph, was an inscription. It said: I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask why I do so. I do not know, but I feel it, and I am in torment. There was no signature, but Skye in­tended to get a sample of Lloyd's handwriting first thing to­morrow morning.

Skye thought to herself, If you really want to know about someone, read their yearbook.

CHAPTER 19

It's My Party

Before nine-thirty Sunday morning, Skye had already tried on seven outfits and completely redone her hair twice. It would have been easier to choose what to wear if she'd known where they were going. If it was someplace local, casual attire would be fine, but if they were going into Chicago, she needed to dress for a city crowd. Glanc­ing at the clock, Skye noted it was now one minute to ten. Time to fish or cut bait, as her dad would say.

She finally settled on what she hoped was a sensible compromise, another shorts suit, this one in mint green. Its vestlike top had French knot buttons, a weskit hem, and side slits. The shorts were full-cut with inverted pleats that gave them the illusion of a skirt.

While giving herself one last spritz of Chanel, she heard the doorbell ring. She walked swiftly through her bedroom and paused in the center of the great room.

Saturday night, after Mass, she'd spent lugging the rest of her belongings from her parents' garage to her cottage and finishing the unpacking. The room now contained a futon-type sofa that faced the sliding glass doors leading to the deck. Two camp chairs faced the couch, with an old wooden trunk that doubled as a coffee table in front of it. The shelves situated between the doors were full of books, pictures, and souvenirs.

It wasn't exactly the Ritz Carlton, but it was a vast im­provement from her graduate school dorm room or the

wooden shack of her Peace Corps days. She had put a tray containing a carafe of coffee, mugs, spoons, napkins, and a sugar and creamer on the trunk. Tiny Danish pastries were arranged on a separate plate.

When Skye opened the door, she caught her breath. Simon was wearing a straw fedora with a green band, a beige short-sleeved oxford-cloth shirt with a button-down collar, and pleated Dockers in an olive check. The penny loafers on his feet looked newly polished.

Beneath the brim of his hat, Skye saw, his short auburn hair had a fresh barber line. His features hinted at elegance and refinement. In his hand he held a dozen yellow roses.

Finding it hard to speak, Skye managed only, 'Hi. Please come in.'

Simon walked into the foyer, removed his hat, and handed her the bouquet. 'I thought these might make up for the Diet Coke.'

'Wow, my favorite. What do I get for the parking space and the place in line?' Her best defense when faced with intense emotion had always been humor.

He smiled. 'Won't it be interesting to find out?'

This was a man who could definitely become a problem. Unlike the boys Skye had dated in college or the other stu­dents at grad school, Simon had poise and polish. A danger­ous combination. The same treacherous savoir-faire her ex-fiance had possessed in abundance. Why was she at­tracted to this kind of man? A lump formed in her throat. They only brought her pain.