As soon as she reached her cottage, Skye showered and changed into a pair of old denim shorts and an orange University of Illinois T-shirt. She slipped her feet into rubber thongs and went to explore the food situation. A chunk of cheese, a few slices of salami, and half a box of crackers tossed onto a tray made up her meal. She added a glass of Caffeine-Free Diet Coke and walked out to her deck. After placing her dinner on a side table, she settled into a cushioned lounge chair and tried to forget the past eight hours by gazing at the river and allowing her mind to go blank.
As she felt the muscles in her neck and back relax, she thought how lucky she'd been to get this cottage. Discovering it was the only good thing that had happened to her since she'd found out she would have to move back to Scumble River. She'd rented it sight unseen through a newspaper ad and had been relieved that it was even better in real life than the picture and description promised.
The owners were from Chicago. Before their messy divorce they had used the cottage as a weekend hideaway.
Neither was willing to sell it, give it up, or share it, so until they could come to some compromise they were renting it. Skye hoped they wouldn't achieve any common ground until after she could figure out a way to leave Scumble River.
She loved the unusual octagonal shape of the house. And the deck reaching from the left of the front door, around the side and all along the back, made her feel almost like she was living in a tree house. The small center cupola acted as a skylight, drawing extra sunshine into the high-ceilinged rooms.
The cottage's location among the weeping willows and the elms along the riverbank allowed for the privacy Skye had missed since she'd left her family's farm. There were few other houses on the road, and all were obscured by thick foliage.
Skye tried to focus on the house, but her thoughts kept returning to the murder. After a few minutes she gave up and went to phone her mom. She needed to talk things over with someone, and since she'd been gone from Scumble River for over twelve years, her choices were limited.
May answered on the first ring.
'Mom, it's me.' Skye pictured her mother standing in her green-and-white kitchen, looking out the big picture window at the backyard. May's salt-and-pepper hair was cut very short to take advantage of its natural waves, and her emerald-green eyes matched Skye's own. She would be wearing denim shorts and a T-shirt, probably one with the insignia of her beloved Cubs baseball team printed on the front.
'Oh, thank God. I was so worried. I've been calling over and over ever since I heard about the murder. Are you okay?'
'I'm fine. Charlie's fine. Everyone we know is fine.' Skye took a seat on a kitchen chair. This was going to be a
long conversation. 'Mrs. Gumtree, that children's TV star, was the one killed.'
May sighed. 'That's a relief. So, the person who was killed was from Chicago—nothing to do with us.'
Skye thought about explaining that people who didn't live in Scumble River were still worthy of their concern, but took a deep breath and instead broached the subject she had called about. 'Mom, do you know any of the teachers at the high school?'
'No. Not offhand. Why?'
'Well, I spent Friday there visiting classrooms and observing students. I took a break around ten that morning, and Chokeberry Days was the hot topic of conversation in the teachers' lounge.'
'There has been a lot of fighting this year about the festival. People really took sides,' May said.
Skye stretched the phone cord to its limit and grabbed a cookie from the jar on the counter. 'Yeah, I saw that at the chokeberry jelly judging yesterday. I thought there was going to be a brawl right then and there, especially after the mayor's death was prematurely announced.'
'Wasn't that awful? But I hear Eldon's fine today—not that he didn't get what he deserved.'
'Huh? What's happened to Chokeberry Days? When I was little, the whole festival started Saturday afternoon with the judging of the jams and jellies. There was a carnival that night and a parade Sunday. How did all these extra activities get started?' Skye took a bite of her Oreo.
May's voice indicated her disapproval. 'Things really got out of hand this year. Our beloved mayor is trying to put Scumble River on the map. Every year Chokeberry Days gets bigger and more extravagant. And ends up caus ing more trouble. A couple of years ago, he had the bright idea of having a Harley-Davidson exhibition, so now we get hundreds of bikers tearing up the town during the festival.'
'Let me guess—you really can't say anything against the whole thing because of Uncle Charlie.'
'Chokeberry Days is his baby,' May admitted.
'True, and we all know what happens to people who aren't nice to other people's children.' Skye put the rest of the cookie in her mouth and crunched.
CHAPTER 5
The Sounds of Silence
Monday morning, heading toward her meeting with the junior high principal, Skye felt a lump of dread settle in her stomach. Since she'd started her job a week ago, things had not been going according to plan, and she felt the whole situation slipping out of her control. The principals of both the high school and the elementary school had made it clear the week before that they had no time to talk to Skye about her duties or answer her questions.
No one seemed very interested in having her around or even sure what to do with her. Finding out where she was supposed to work and locating the supplies she would need made her feel about as popular as a Christmas fruitcake.
She had just met with the superintendent, who after several telephone calls between his secretary and those at the various schools, promised her an office in the junior high. If she was still employed next year, the elementary would take a turn housing her, and if the unheard-of occurred and she stayed a third year, the high school would ante up a space.
When Skye entered his office, the junior high principal, Lloyd Stark, glanced pointedly at his watch and scowled.
'Oh, gee, sorry to be late. The superintendent kept me longer than I expected.'
He nodded, but his impatient expression was easy to read. He gestured to the pair of straight-back vinyl chairs across from his desk without speaking.
Skye felt her temper push its way to the surface. In order to regain control, she let her gaze sweep the small room. It was painted a dull beige. The walls were decorated with engraved plaques and citations. No posters or paintings were present to reveal the taste of the occupant. The furniture was utilitarian—nothing stuffed or upholstered that might invite the occupant to get comfortable or stay longer than was strictly necessary. Flat brown carpet suggested that it, too, had been selected for thrift rather than style. And the only light glared from the ceiling fixture's fluorescent bulb.
As she sat, Skye slowly arranged her purse and briefcase by her feet and allowed herself to examine the man behind the desk. Lloyd looked more like a used-car salesman than an educator. She had heard that he had been the principal of Scumble River Junior High School for nine years. Before that, he was a RE. teacher and coach at the high school for ten years. She guessed that although Lloyd was not originally from Scumble River, over his nineteen-year tenure he would have become well acquainted with its foibles, especially nepotism.
One of her Denison cousins worked as a custodian at the high school and had told her that Lloyd and the other principals had held a private conference after the July school board meeting, the meeting at which it was decided to hire Skye as the new psychologist without even a token interview or reference check.
According to Kenny, none of the principals was happy about hiring her, but all agreed they would reserve judgment and not hold her relationship with the school board president, Charlie Patukas, against her.
Skye continued to study Lloyd. He did not match his cheaply furnished office. Dressed in an expensive blue pinstriped suit, rnonogrammed white broadcloth shirt, handmade silk necktie, and highly polished black tasseled kilties, he wore no wedding band, but there was a large pic-
ture on his desk, framed in heavy gold leaf, of a drab woman and three ordinary-looking children.
Finally, since it appeared that Lloyd was not about to begin their meeting, Skye leaned forward and extended her hand. 'Hello, I'm Skye Denison, the new psychologist.'
'Yes, I had figured that out.' Lloyd held her hand for a fraction of a second too long, and then they sat without saying anything further. His flat black eyes exactly matched his slicked-back black hair, which was such an
