“Right.” Dante snorted. “They’ll be in divorce court before the new year.”
“You’re wrong, Uncle Dante.” Skye refused to let his statement stand. Others could kowtow to the mayor, but she wasn’t about to—not on this issue. “Why would you even say that? Vince and Loretta are in love and that’s all that matters.”
“Love is a myth women made up to keep men in line.” Dante folded his arms. “It’s certainly not a good reason to get married.”
“Then why did you get married?” Skye blurted out, then wished she hadn’t when she saw her aunt’s stricken expression.
“To produce an heir.” Dante waddled closer to the women, looking a lot like a pissed-off penguin. “Now, if you two are through gossiping and Skye will get her butt out of my seat, I’d like to get out of here before the parking lot becomes a madhouse.”
Skye jumped up and gestured to Dante’s canvas throne. “Be my guest.” She tilted her head. “You must have had very important business with Mr. Taylor to stick around this long.”
Dante didn’t respond to Skye’s probe. Instead he jerked his chin at his wife and said, “Olive, are you going to sit there all night?”
“No, Dante.” Olive leaped to her feet, nearly saluting. “Sorry.”
Dante ignored her, folded both the chairs, shoved them into their carrying bags, heaved the straps over his shoulders, and picked up the cooler, then marched off without a backward glance.
“Bye, dear.” Olive waved to Skye, then hastily tottered after her husband, but not before Skye noticed the tears on her cheeks.
“Shit! ” Skye stomped her foot. She had failed to learn anything about Rex Taylor’s scheme, and she’d hurt her aunt. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“Do you kiss your fiance with that mouth?” Wally’s amused baritone enveloped Skye.
She turned to find him directly behind her. “Only if he’s lucky.”
Chief Walter Boyd was an extremely attractive man who superbly filled out his crisply starched police uniform. He had eyes the color of Godiva chocolate, curly black hair with just a touch of silver at the temples, and a year- round tan. But it wasn’t his handsome face or sexy body that made Skye love him; it was his sense of humor and his compassionate nature.
“My horoscope said something great would occur today.” Wally’s dazzling white smile was rueful. “And thus far nothing even close to good has happened to me, so you must be it.”
Skye flung herself into his embrace, reveling in feeling his muscular arms around her and his solid chest beneath her cheek. “You can tell me all about it on the way home.” She gave him a lingering kiss, then took his hand and tried to lead him toward the parking lot.
Wally didn’t budge. “That’s why I was looking for you. It’ll be quite a while until I can leave.”
“Darn.” Skye’s smile was teasing. “And here I was planning to make you forget all about your troubles. Is there a problem?”
“Too many to list.” Wally winced as the sound of shouting interrupted them. “Let’s just say I sure hope they run out of beer soon.”
“Gee, and I thought the open bar would bring out the best in everyone,” Skye mocked.
A cherry bomb exploded somewhere behind them. “Sorry about tonight,” Wally said over his shoulder as he took off running. “I’ll take you somewhere nice for brunch after church tomorrow.”
“No problem.” Skye waved. “Go do your duty and keep Scumble River safe.”
On the way to her car, Skye paused to watch a brawny man in his early thirties tip over one of the Port-a- Potties. Once it was on its side, the man yanked open the door and pulled out the occupant. He plucked a plastic six-pack holder off the guy’s head and plopped it on his own skull. A tussle ensued between the two men, with the victor bloodying the nose of his foe and reclaiming his crown.
Clutching a bottle of Budweiser, the winner climbed on top of the downed outhouse and screamed, “I’m the king of the world.”
Skye shook her head. Testosterone really should be declared a controlled substance.
Not far from the monarch’s throne, a dozen or so spectators circled two women who were stripping off their clothes to the song “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” which was blaring from a boom box nearby. Once the exhibitionists were down to their bras and panties, the bystanders cheering them on tossed each lady a can of Aqua Net—apparently the only weapons available. Once they had drenched each other with the hairspray, the women squirted the onlookers until the canisters were empty.
Immediately two gentlemen from the audience handed each woman a pillow. They turned back-to-back, paced off ten steps, turned, and ran at each other. A few smacks and the pillows began to tear. Soon feathers filled the air and Skye quickly moved away before she started sneezing.
She was walking near the riverbank when she spotted several guys, some clad in boxer shorts and others in tighty whities, attempting to jump into the river but being kept at bay by most of the Scumble River police force. It looked like an adult version of the game Red Rover, Red Rover. As one of the wannabe swimmers ran at the line of cops and was driven back into the group, another of the aspiring skinny-dippers would try to break through the wall of officers and leap into the water.
The would-be bathers were either drunk past the point of all survival instincts or not from Scumble River, because the locals all knew that the dam caused dangerous currents, and attempting to swim off the park’s shore was a good way to commit suicide.
Sending up a heartfelt prayer that none of the revelers would manage to slip past the cops, Skye continued toward her car. She knew that tomorrow they would all be as hungover as a sheet on the clothesline, but better a raging headache than a trip to the morgue.
Scumble River Park was a small finger of land that extended into the river for a half mile or so. It was usually accessible by car from Maryland Street, but that entrance had been blocked for the concert and people had been directed to leave their vehicles next door at the Up A Lazy River Motor Court.
The last stretch of her hike to the motor court’s parking lot was deserted, and Skye thankfully crossed the footbridge and climbed into her trusty aqua and white’57 Bel Air convertible.
Even though she lived north of the city limits along the west branch of the Scumble River, the drive home took less than ten minutes. Then again, most trips around Scumble River and its environs took less than ten minutes. With a population only a shade over three thousand, the town didn’t cover many miles.
A couple of years ago Skye had inherited the Griggs house, as the old two-story white edifice would always be called, and she had been renovating it ever since. Tonight, as she steered her car through the twin redbrick columns at the end of the driveway, she admired the newly restored wrought-iron gates. When she had first moved into the house, the gates had lain rusting in the weeds. The ornate double
At the end of the long driveway, Skye first turned the Bel Air to the right, then spun the wheel around and pulled into the left side of the detached two-car garage. She had finally sold the ancient Lincoln Continental that had occupied the other half for over a year. Skye had found the car, like a lot of Mrs. Griggs’s possessions, hard to relinquish. She wasn’t sure why she felt such an attachment to the old woman’s belongings, but she did.
Once Skye was out on the sidewalk, the halogen pole lamp she’d had installed near the driveway provided a circle of illumination that extended all the way to her front door. It made the short trip from her car to her house feel safer, and having helped the police solve several murders, Skye was usually more alert to her surroundings than the average Scumble Riverite.
Tonight, however, her mind was on Rex Taylor’s announcement and Skye was lost in thought as she mounted the porch steps. On autopilot, she approached the front door and inserted the key in the lock. But before she could turn it, a loud squeak followed by footsteps penetrated her reverie. She whirled around, staring into the darkness until a slight figure stepped into the pool of light.
“Oh, my God!” Skye gasped. “You scared the life out of me. What are you doing here?”
