Murder of a Bookstore Babe

bar tended to keep most Scumble Riverites happy for quite a while.

Skye fanned herself with the old grocery list she had found in the pocket of her khaki capris and watched for Wally Boyd. Wally was her fiance, but tonight he was on duty as the chief of police.

Usually he wouldn’t be working on a Saturday night, but the entire Scumble River police force was patrolling this event—six full-time officers and two part-timers. An affair like this needed all the crowd control available. It wasn’t often that a celebrity like Flint James performed anywhere near Scumble River, let alone in a free concert.

Which brought up a good question. Why? Why would Flint James agree to come to the middle of nowhere and sing, especially without charging for tickets?

As Skye slapped at a gnat buzzing around her ear, she caught sight of her uncle, the mayor. Dante Leofanti was seated front and center on something resembling a red canvas throne. It had a canopy, a table attached to the arm, and even a footrest. His wife, Olive, sat by his side in a smaller version of the same elaborate chair, although hers was baby blue.

Skye narrowed her eyes. Nothing happened in his town without the mayor’s knowledge and permission. Dante had to have approved the use of the park, the permit to build the grandstand, and the authorization to serve alcohol. He would certainly know why Flint James was singing here, but did Skye care enough to go over there and ask him? No. Dante treated information like a commodity, and she didn’t want to be in his debt.

More to the point, she really didn’t need to know. There was an extremely fine line between concerned and nosy. Skye usually erred on the wrong side of that line, but not this time. She had learned her lesson and was minding her own business for once.

Skye wasn’t on duty as either the town’s school psychologist or psychological consultant to the police department. She was just at the concert to hear some good music and have fun with her friends. Whatever was going on was not her problem.

Speaking of friends, where was Trixie? Skye’s BFF, Trixie Frayne, and Trixie’s husband, Owen, were supposed to have shown up half an hour ago. Skye checked her cell phone. It was on—she often forgot to power it up—and she didn’t have any messages so her friend hadn’t tried to reach her.

Skye attempted to call Trixie, but got her voice mail. After leaving a message asking Trixie and Owen to meet her by the refreshment stand, Skye threaded her way through the crowd, looking for her friends.

While she walked, Skye dug through her purse for a barrette, desperate to get her humidity-frizzed chestnut curls out of her face. The freshly ironed sleeveless white blouse she had put on just before leaving home was now wrinkled and limp, and it clung to her ample curves like a damp shower curtain. Autumn had begun three weeks ago, but the unusually high temperature made it feel like it was still the dog days of summer.

Skye considered giving up on Trixie and Owen and just going home. She could relax in the air-conditioning, watch a movie, and spend some quality time with her cat. Although she liked country music, without both Wally and her friends, the concert wouldn’t be much fun.

Besides, she wasn’t fond of outdoor events unless the weather was perfect. A circumstance rarely found in the Midwest, where it was often necessary to switch from the heat to the AC and vice versa on the same day.

Still, when you lived in the small town where you grew up, worked in public education, and were engaged to the police chief, it was a good idea to show your face at social gatherings. And Skye had finally admitted that she did want to be a part of the community. It had taken her a while, but after five years, she recognized that moving back to Scumble River, despite its rigid sense of right and wrong, had been a good decision.

Not that she’d had much choice at the time since she’d lost her job, maxed out her credit cards, and been jilted. But now, even though she’d saved a little money, could count on a decent job reference, and had a brand- new fiance, given the choice, she would stay in her hometown for the rest of her life. Too bad this evening was beginning to feel like it was going to last at least that long.

Skye had reached the edge of the lawn-chair- and blanket-seated audience without spotting her friends. Where in the heck were they? She ground her teeth. Shoot! Not only was there no sign of Trixie and Owen, but now she needed to find a bathroom—fast.

Unfortunately, both Port-a-Potties had lengthy lines, and Skye was fairly sure she couldn’t wait however long it would take to get to the front of the queue. On to plan B. There were bathrooms in the picnic area, located behind the grandstand at the far end of the park. With any luck no one would have thought of them.

Skye took off at a brisk trot, but a few steps from her goal, she was stopped by a red plastic ribbon strung between several sawhorses. A large white sign hung in the center. Black lettering read: EMPLOYEES OF COUNTRY ROADS TOUR ONLY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

Crap! There was no time to come up with a plan C. If she didn’t get to a toilet soon, she was going to embarrass herself big-time. Skye looked around. A silver Airstream with COUNTRY ROADS TOUR stenciled on its side was pulled in front of the bathroom, but there wasn’t anyone in sight. She stopped and listened. It was completely quiet. Excellent. She’d be in and out with no one the wiser.

Skye ducked under the ribbon, paused for a nanosecond, then darted toward her objective. Arriving a little out of breath, she found that the trailer was parked so close to the building, she could barely get the screen door halfway open. She squeezed through the gap and sighed with relief when she saw the empty stalls.

A few relieved minutes later, Skye was washing her hands and wondering if Trixie and Owen had ever arrived when she heard angry voices coming from inside the RV. Yikes! She had to get out of here before she was discovered and arrested. Wouldn’t that be a delightful headline: CHIEF’S FIANCEE ARRESTED FOR USING A FORBIDDEN BATHROOM.

Skye plastered herself against the wall, willing herself to become invisible, which was quite a stretch, considering her opulent figure. She snuck a quick look through the doorway. A large open window was directly across from the bathroom’s entrance. Why in the heck didn’t they have the air-conditioning on and their windows closed like normal people?

While waiting for her hair appointment last week, she had read in Entertainment Weekly that some singers disliked AC because they claimed it was bad for their vocal chords, but this was ridiculous. It was close to ninety degrees and muggy; surely those conditions couldn’t be good for anyone, even a star’s delicate throat.

Skye shook her head. Why didn’t matter. The window was open, and if she tried to leave now, the suit-wearing guy from the stage who was talking heatedly to Flint James would see her and call the police.

Taking another peek, Skye noted that Flint’s usually handsome face was an ugly scarlet mask, his broad shoulders were rigid, and his hands were fisted. His previous air of indifference was gone, and it looked as if he was itching to punch the other man in the face.

The ex-quarterback had a good five inches and fifty pounds of muscle on Mr. Suit, and could easily cause some real damage to the other guy. Flint might even kill him if the blow landed in exactly the right spot.

Should she call Wally? Make her presence known? Skye wavered. Maybe it was a guy thing, and she would just get herself in trouble if she interfered. She’d promised herself she would stop rushing in to help people who hadn’t asked for her assistance. Then again, she didn’t want anyone to get hurt.

Before she could decide, Mr. Suit’s booming voice brought her attention back to the two men. “We have no choice. Suzette isn’t here and we can’t reach her. We have to get this show on the road.”

“That’s not my problem, Rex.” Flint jabbed Mr. Suit, aka Rex, in the chest. “The star does not go on first. And I’m the star.”

Obviously the opening act was MIA. Skye wrinkled her brow, trying to remember what she had heard about Suzette Neal. All she knew about the girl singer was her age—twenty-two—and that she had lived in the area as a child, although no one Skye had spoken to seemed to recognize Suzette’s name or claim her as kin.

“It’s more than half an hour since we were supposed to start the program.” Rex grabbed Flint’s shoulder. “I order you to get your ass on stage and sing.”

“No.” Flint shook off Rex’s hand as if it were an annoying insect. “Check my contract. You can’t force me to perform out of order.”

“Do it this one time and I’ll make it worth your while.” Rex’s tone turned cajoling. “This concert is no big deal. Just a freebie to get the locals on our side. I promise it will be good for us both.”

“That’s what Suzette wants. You already gave her one of my best songs—one I wanted to sing myself—and you forced me to do a duet with her.” Flint crossed his arms. “Don’t think I’m not onto her schemes.”