Murder of a Bookstore Babe

May stopped, stared at the wedding cake, then at Skye and Wally, and screamed, “No!” Sinking into the nearest chair, she moaned, “Tell me you didn’t elope!”

“Not me, Mom.” Skye hadn’t realized her mother might think she was the bride.

“Then what is that all about?” May demanded. “You scared ten years off my life.”

“Maybe you should have a drink first.” Skye walked toward the bottle of champagne that was chilling in a silver bucket.

“For heaven’s sake, just tell me.” May threw up her hands in exasperation.

Skye moved a couple steps farther from her mother, then said, “Vince and Loretta got married last Monday in Las Vegas.”

May howled, “My baby!” She popped up from her seat and threw herself against her husband’s chest. “My baby boy got married without me.”

Jed awkwardly patted his wife’s shoulder, and said, “No importance.”

May stiffened, drew back, and slapped him. “It is too important, Jed Denison!” May sobbed.

Skye gasped. She had never once seen either parent lift a hand to the other. Before Skye could process what she had witnessed, the cafe door opened and Vince and Loretta burst into the room. May’s tears disappeared faster than an ice cube in a deep fryer, and she flung herself into her son’s arms.

Vince drew Loretta into the circle, and the three of them spoke in low tones for several minutes. Skye heard the words “grandchildren” and “house in Scumble River,” then saw May embrace Loretta and smile.

Since all seemed forgiven, Skye popped the cork on the champagne and started pouring. After they toasted the new couple’s happiness, everyone hugged, and Vince and Loretta cut the cake while Wally took pictures using his cell phone.

Once they were all settled around a table to eat, Skye asked, “Vince, why did you have us meet at Tales and Treats? A bookstore isn’t your usual style.”

“Exactly.” Vince grinned. “I knew it would throw Mom off the trail.” May whapped him on the arm, and he continued, “Besides, when Orlando came into the shop a couple of weeks ago for a haircut, he told me all about his baking, so when we decided to do this, I called him to see if he’d let me have a private function at the cafe after closing time.”

“Why didn’t you ask Maggie to do the cake?” May frowned. Maggie was one of her best friends and the cake maker for Scumble River special occasions.

“Because she would have told you.” Vince laughed. “Same reason we didn’t have this shindig at the Feed Bag. Tomi would have spilled the beans, too.”

“Yeah.” May’s chest puffed out. “I guess I do cast a pretty wide net.”

“Have you told your folks yet, Loretta?” Skye asked.

“No.” The bride’s expression was hard to read. “We’re driving into the city later tonight to share our news with them.”

They chatted for a half hour or so; then Vince said, “We’ve got to get going. We told Loretta’s family we’d be there at nine, and even if traffic isn’t bad, it’ll take us at least ninety minutes.”

They all followed the newlyweds out of the cafe, and once Skye and Wally were in his car, he suggested to her, “How about stopping at the Brown Bag for a drink? I hear they have a good fifties band playing tonight.”

“Sure.” Skye shook her head. “I could use something stronger than that champagne.”

The Brown Bag, one of Scumble River’s nicer bars, was packed. There were no free tables and only one spot at the bar. Skye took the open stool, and Wally stood behind her. While they waited for the bartender to notice them, she looked around.

Ay-yi-yi! Sitting a couple places down, with a row of martini glasses lined up in front of him, was Simon. Skye was startled. What was he doing there, and why was he getting wasted? That wasn’t like him at all.

Just as she was considering telling Wally she had a headache and wanted to leave, Simon saw them.

He rose unsteadily and staggered toward them. “Well, if it isn’t Dudley Do-Right.”

“Reid.” Wally’s expression was glacial.

“I hope you’re happy.” Simon poked Wally in the chest. “Xavier quit.”

Skye bit her lip. That wasn’t good. Xavier needed a steady income. On the other hand, burying the dead was a recession-proof industry, and he’d have no problem finding a job at any of the neighboring funeral homes.

Simon interrupted her thoughts by adding, “He said he couldn’t face me every day after lying to me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Wally’s tone was neutral. “Maybe once things settle down, you can change his mind.”

“Like you give a shit,” Simon said in a harsh, raw voice. “You want to see me lose everyone I care about.”

Wally’s jaw tightened. “I couldn’t care less one way or the other.”

“I’m not giving up on Skye.” Simon straightened and seemed to sober up all of a sudden. “I hear you’re having trouble getting your annulment, Boyd.” His smile was predatory. “Just remember, it isn’t over until the fat lady sings.”

“If that’s the case, Reid”—Wally arched a brow—“she’s clearing her throat right now, because I’ve located Darleen.”

When Scumble River is struck with

honky-tonk fever, Skye Denison

wonders if the whole town

will go up in flames.

Read on for a sneak preview of the next

Scumble River Mystery,MURDER OF A CREPED SUZETTEComing from Obsidian in

October 2011.

Skye Denison had to admit that Flint James was hot. Neither the engagement ring on her finger nor her utter aversion to sports of any kind altered the fact that the pro quarterback turned country singer looked like a Greek statue—if statues wore cowboy hats, had smoky whiskey-colored eyes, and sported really good tans.

Flint leaned on the side railing of Scumble River Park’s newly constructed grandstand, gazing at the early evening sky. The rising star appeared unconcerned about whatever was transpiring at the back of the stage, where a cluster of guys in jeans, T-shirts, and baseball caps surrounded a man in an expensive Western-style suit.

To Skye, the group of men looked like the featured rodents in a whack-a-mole game—first one head would pop up, scan the audience, and duck back down, then another and another, before starting the process all over again. It was obvious that something was wrong, but what? While the others appeared merely irritated, Mr. Suit looked apoplectic.

According to the liberally distributed flyers, the program was supposed to start at six thirty. It was already a quarter to seven, and although the pack was ablaze with lights, and there were amplifiers scattered around the stage’s perimeter, nothing was happening.

Perhaps the out-of-towners didn’t understand how much the good citizens of Scumble River valued punctuality, but Skye knew if something didn’t happen soon, people would begin to leave. Small-town Illinoisans considered fifteen minutes early as on time, the stated hour as barely acceptable, and anything afterward as intolerably late.

The only thing that might persuade everyone to hang around was the complimentary refreshments. An open