Murder of a Small-Town Honey

MURDER OF A SMALL TOWN HONEY

SCUMBLE RIVER 1

By Denise Swanson

CHAPTER 1

It's Like We Never Said Goodbye

When Skye Denison was forced to return to Scumble River, Illinois, she knew it would be humiliating, but she never dreamed it would be murder. It was embarrassing enough to have been fired from her first full-time position as a school psychologist, but then she'd had to beg for a job in a place she had described as a small town, full of small-minded people, with even smaller intellects. Skye only wished she hadn't said it to the entire population of Scum­ble River via her high school valedictorian address. Granted, the speech took place twelve years ago, but she had a feeling people would remember.

Nonetheless, she was back, and nothing had changed. Skye had arrived in Scumble River last Sunday afternoon, barely in time for the start of school on Monday. Her plan had been to slip into town unnoticed and remain that way for as long as possible. But it was only Saturday, and she'd already been suckered into participating in one of the com­munity's most hokey events, the Chokeberry Days Festival. Skye stood behind a huge table made from sawhorses and sheets of plywood. Spread across its surface was a red-and-white-checked cloth on which were lined up hundreds of bright pink bottles of chokeberry jelly. The clashing col­ors made Skye dizzy, and the idea of actually tasting the contents of all those jars made her nauseous. How had she ever let herself be talked into judging the chokeberry jelly contest?

Before she could make a bolt for freedom, a woman dressed in a magenta-colored polyester pantsuit descended on the booth. "Skye, it's good to see you back home where you belong. Though I do remember you saying something when you left about Scumble River being too small for you."

"Aunt Minnie, what can I say?" She could think of lots of things, but none that wouldn't get her in trouble. Minnie was her mother's middle sister, and she would be on the phone griping to Skye's mom in a minute if she felt Skye had been rude.

"Did you hear about what happened Thursday night at the high school band contest?" Minnie was also gossip cen­tral for their family. She was better at getting the news out than Dan Rather.

"No, what?" Skye asked warily. Her aunt reminded her of a Venus-flytrap, and Skye was always afraid she was about to become the bug.

"Well, I thought you would've been there, since you got that fancy job working for the schools." Minnie smiled sweetly.

Swallowing the words she wanted to say—fancy job and Scumble River School District did not belong in the same sentence—Skye matched her aunt's smile and said, "Gee, I didn't know you all were impressed by my little job."

After a few moments of silence, Minnie went on as if Skye hadn't spoken. "The problems started when half the kids discovered their music had disappeared and the other half claimed their instruments were missing. Both were later found stashed in the shower stall next to the boys' locker room, but by then it was too late to go on with the contest."

Skye said, "Oh, my, I did hear some teachers talking about that yesterday in the teachers' lounge. There was a fight too, right?"

"Right. The rival band members blamed each other for the missing items, and Scumble River's tuba player ended up with a broken nose. A drummer from Clay Center took home two black eyes."

"How awful. The poor kids had probably practiced for months for the competition." Skye narrowed her eyes. "A prank like that is just plain mean. Do you know if they found out who did it?"

Minnie shook her head.

"I wonder if the band director kicked any kids out of the band recently."

"Not that I heard of. But that's not all that's been hap­pening," Minnie said and fanned herself with her handker­chief. "Yesterday at the catfish dinner, someone replaced all the salt in the kitchen with sugar. Seventy pounds of cat­fish, potato salad, and baked beans were ruined. The Feed-bag was sponsoring the supper, so they're out a pretty penny."

Skye frowned. The Feedbag was Scumble River's only restaurant, other than the fast-food places along the road heading out of town. Like any small business, the Feed-bag operated on a shoestring and couldn't afford a big hit in the cash register. "Why would someone do that?" she asked.

Minnie's face grew angelic. "Why, honey, you're the one with the degree in psychology. I'm just one of those people with small intellects you told us about in your grad­uation speech."

Skye felt her face turn the same color as her aunt's suit, and decided the better part of valor lay in switching sub­jects—quickly. "Chokeberry Days has certainly changed a lot."

"This year is different," Minnie said quietly. "There's a bad feeling in town. Half the people want the festival to grow bigger and bigger."

Skye hazarded a guess. "The ones in town who stand to profit from the crowds, no doubt."

"Yes. And on the other side are all the folks that just see it for a nuisance."

"Who's that?" Skye wrinkled her brow.

Minnie held up her hand and counted on her fingers. "The junior high principal, Lloyd Stark, is the prime insti­gator of the anti-festival campaign. He hates how it ruins the beginning of school. There are classes for three days, and then Chokeberry Days starts, and half the kids play hooky for the rest of the week."

"I wondered why things were so quiet on Thursday and Friday."

Bending down a second finger, Minnie continued. "The people who live along Basin Street also hate the festival. Their windows get broken, garbage gets thrown in their front yards, and the noise is awful. Mike Young is the head of that group."

"Vince's friend from high school?"

"Yes. At the time we worried when your brother stuck by him, but Mike seems to have straightened up quite a bit since his teenage years."

"Oh, yeah. I remember now. He went to prison for a while for dealing drugs."

"Seems okay now. He owns the local photography shop."

"Nice to hear someone made good." Skye closed her eyes briefly and visualized what her life had been like last year at this time. Living in New Orleans had been a dream come true. Everything was exotic and slightly forbidden. She loved nosing out the mysteries of the city. That is, until one of the secrets turned on her and caused her to be fired . .. and jilted. She shook her head. She had vowed not to think of her ex-fiance and the pain he had caused her.

"Skye, sweetheart, come give me a kiss."

Skye looked up from her reflections into the faded green eyes of her grandmother, Antonia Leofanti. "Grandma!"

The two women hugged fiercely. Skye noticed how frail her grandmother had become in the eight months since she had last seen her. Antonia's pink scalp peeked through her white hair, and her head barely made it to Skye's chest. It felt as if she was embracing a skeleton.

Antonia backed away first and looked confused for a moment. "Oh, Skye ... ah, Minnie." Her gaze cleared as she turned toward her daughter. "I almost forgot. They've got a problem at the Altar and Rosary Society's craft tent. Someone switched all the price tags around. lona Clapp's handmade quilt is now marked twenty-five cents, and little Iris's potholder is going for four hundred dollars."

Minnie gave a shriek and took off at a trot.

Antonia spoke over her shoulder to Skye as she slowly followed Minnie.. "Now that you're back in town, you make sure you come visit me. It's time I told someone the family history, and I think you're the best one to hear it."

Skye hurried toward the Port-A-Pots. One of the other judges had finally showed up to take over watching the jel­lies, and Skye was free for half an hour. When she arrived at the toilets she swore under her breath. The line snaked back past both the Lions' lemonade stand and the Knights of Columbus fishpond grab bag game. As she took her place at the end, she heard a high saccharine voice attempt­ing to tell a children's story while a small child screamed in the background.

By standing with her back to the line, Skye was able to observe the performance currently unfolding on the festi­val's center stage. A tiny old lady, dressed in a loose white dress over a red-and-white-striped long-sleeved turtleneck and matching tights, was trying to ignore two little boys who were fighting over a stuffed animal. After one particu­larly loud screech, the woman finally stopped her story-

telling and crouched next to the unhappy children. Her dress was so long and she was so tiny, the only thing that showed in this position was the rolled-up tips of her pointy-toed shoes.

The old lady's amplified voice could be heard through­out the food and games area. "Sweetie pies, could you do Mrs. Gumtree a big, big favor? If you stop fighting over that itty-bitty teddy bear, Mrs. Gumtree will get each of you one of her dolls when she finishes the story."

The children were quiet for less than a heartbeat, then a reedy young voice piped up, "Boys don't play with dolls."

Skye watched as the two kids, now united against the enemy, an adult, stood and raced off the stage. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but it looked to Skye as if a fleeting expression of irritation crossed Mrs. Gumtree's features before she turned back and pasted a smile on her face.

As Skye used the facilities, smelly as they were, she shook her head over the way Mrs. Gumtree had handled the children. If she ever ran into the woman, maybe she'd give her a few tips on behavior management.

She still had some time before she was due back to judge the chokeberry jellies, so she decided to walk to the pasture where Cow Chip Bingo was being held.

To play Cow Chip Bingo, a flat piece of ground was di­vided into square-yard plats that were sold for twenty dol­lars each. On the specified day, plat-holders were provided with a barbecue dinner, which they consumed picnic-style on their section of grass. One well-fed cow was allowed to wander the field. The winner was the holder of the plat in which the cow dropped its chips.

Skye heard screams and laughter as she approached the playing area. Hurrying forward, she saw people running in every direction. She was just in time to watch a father, holding his daughter over his head, step in a cow pie and go down as if he were sliding into home base.

Skye asked a man leaning against the gate, "What's going on here?"

He half turned to her, but kept an eye on the field. "Somebody must've slipped something into the cow's feed. It's dropping a load every few feet. They called for the vet." The man tsked. "Worse part is, no winner can be declared, and all the money has to be refunded. This is really going to hurt the 4-H club."

As he was talking, a middle-aged woman in a go-to-meeting dress and high-heeled pumps ran directly into a large pile of cow chips and went down. When she yelled, "Shit!" the crowd roared and agreed that was what she had stepped in.

Skye watched for a moment longer before turning back to her duties. With all the pranks being played, she didn't want to leave the jellies unguarded.

The crowd inside the corrugated-metal building where all the domestic goods were to be judged was buzzing when Skye returned.

Her fellow jelly judge was bursting with news. "Did you hear what happened at the go-cart races?"

"No." Skye felt her stomach tighten. She had always been afraid someone would kill themselves on the Go-Kart track. "What happened?"

"Someone poured water in all the gas tanks. All the karts are ruined." The woman's face was so red from the excite­ment, Skye was afraid she was going to have a stroke.

"How awful. I just came from Cow Chip Bingo and it was spoiled too."

After Skye gave her the details, the woman excused her­self. "It's only quarter to. I'll be back by three and we can get the judging going. I've got to find my sister and tell her the latest."

The judging of the chokeberry jelly contest was one of the main events of the Chokeberry Days Festival. With only a few minutes before the official start, the building was crammed with people. Skye heard snatches of conversation, mostly discussions of the various pranks and why Choke-berry Days should or shouldn't continue.

Skye looked at her watch, wondering where Mayor Clapp was. They couldn't start the judging without him. As time passed and the judging did not commence, the crowd grew restless. They had already divided themselves into two groups—those for Chokeberry Days and those against. As the heat rose in the metal building, tempers flared. Skye gnawed on her lower lip. Five more minutes and she was starting without the mayor.

Gradually she realized that one voice was making itself heard above the crowd. "These pranks have got to stop. People are getting hurt. Mayor Clapp needs to do some­thing."

Skye scanned the throng, trying to see who was speak­ing. Instead she spotted Lloyd Stark, the junior high princi­pal, who was chanting, "Cancel Chokeberry Days!"

When the opposition heard him, they began to accuse Lloyd of pulling the pranks. Faces turned red and fists were raised. One man brandished a hammer.

Turning to her co-judge, Skye said, "We'd better do something. That mob's reaching the point of accusing Lloyd of assassinating John F. Kennedy and kidnapping the Lindbergh baby."

Before the other woman could reply, Skye's grand­mother, Antonia, who had been standing with Minnie on the sidelines, walked over to Skye's table, grabbed the biggest jar of chokeberry jelly, and smashed it on the floor.

The roar was abruptly silenced at the sound of the break­ing glass. Into the stillness Antonia asked, "Can any of you

really imagine Lloyd messing with a cow or crawling in the dirt around the Go-Karts?"

Although the silence continued, tension still throbbed, until Minnie snickered and everyone else started laughing.

Lloyd looked around the sea of faces and perhaps not seeing a friendly one, marched out the door in a huff.

The crowd remained quiet until one man dressed in a suit started preaching about the sins of Chokeberry Days. He talked about the property damage, the people injured, and the trash scattered everywhere.

Skye whispered to her fellow judge, "Who's that guy?"

"Mike Young. Nice-looking, isn't he?"

Before Skye could think of a response, the name-calling started again, this time led by the owner of the liquor store, and was quickly picked up by other merchants.

Chokeberry Days was to Scumble River what Mardi Gras was to New Orleans. It brought in so much money that retailers could afford to run their businesses at half profits for the rest of the year. They tripled their rates and sold souvenirs, overpriced crafts, and soda at two dollars a can. The liquor store stayed open twenty-four hours, and the town's restaurant actually required reservations.

Even the farmers made a profit selling "antiques" from their barns and attics, and the last of the vegetables from their gardens. Their wives sold quilts, afghans, and home­made preserves.

Anyone who threatened Chokeberry Days threatened these people's pocketbooks. And they were mighty protec­tive of their cash flow.

Skye's attention was drawn back to Mike Young, who was shouting, "The only reason the mayor allows this whole debauchery is because he gets to pose with a celebrity and gets his picture in the paper."

Skye was still eyeing the crowd when a young boy with flaming red hair ran through the open door screaming, "The mayor's dead! The mayor's dead!"

The crowd was silent for a moment, then a babble of voices erupted. It grew louder and more angry. Skye slipped out from behind the jelly display, grabbed her aunt and grandmother, and ran for the door. She was afraid Scumble River was about to experience its first riot, and she didn't want to be around to see it.

CHAPTER 2

Don't Rain on My Parade

Skye stood trapped on the telephone in her kitchen. She was still dressed in the perspiration-soaked clothes she had worn to attend Mass that Sunday morning. No air-conditioning for Saint Francis Church. Let the Protestants have their creature comforts, the Catholics sweated for Jesus.

The mayor's "death" and miraculous recovery had been the talk of the congregation. The official story was that he had seen someone messing around the beer tent and gone to check things out. When he tried to tap one of the kegs, he received an electrical shock. An open current had been rigged to the metal handle. Although Mayor Clapp had briefly stopped breathing, he appeared to be fully rejuve­nated today. Some people wondered out loud why he had been trying to open the beer—one of the most vocal had been the owner of the liquor store.

But Skye's caller wasn't interested in Mayor Clapp's health. Easing her grip on the telephone receiver, she tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. "Yes, Uncle Charlie. Mom dropped off the T-shirt, but I told you I'm not doing it."

Charlie Patukas wasn't really her uncle, but he was a close friend of the family, and godfather to both her and her brother, Vince. More important, he was grand marshal of Scumble River's Chokeberry Days parade and a man not used to being argued with, as his irritated tone clearly indi-

cated. "I'm counting on you, Skye. The whole town is counting on you."

"I did my duty yesterday. Judging the chokeberry jelly contest was awful enough." She twisted her arm behind her back, trying to reach her zipper, and listened to the silence emanating from the receiver. "Isn't there anyone else who can do it?"

His tone grew silky. "There's no one that I trust, or that owes me her brand-new job."

"You know how grateful I am. Thank you again for making sure they didn't look too deeply into my employ­ment history. Insubordination is hard to explain." She mopped the sweat from her forehead with a paper towel. Having a godfather who was president of the school board had its uses.

"Good. Saying 'thank you' is nice. Showing your appre­ciation is nicer." Charlie's satisfied grin could be detected over the phone lines.

"Okay, I give up. You got me. I'll be there in half an hour." In the past year Skye had become good at admitting defeat.

Hanging up the phone, she stomped into the bathroom. The humidity had turned her long chestnut hair into a mass of unmanageable curls, which she swept into an elastic band. She jammed a baseball cap on her head and flipped her newly created ponytail out the back opening.

The Weather Channel had predicted temperatures in ex­cess of ninety degrees, and by the way the sunlight had shimmered on the parked cars when she'd driven home from church, she guessed it was already well over that mark. The heat did not improve her mood, and as she changed into navy shorts, she berated herself for promising to help Charlie baby-sit the parade participants.

For some reason she'd been having trouble saying no to people since she'd moved back to Scumble River. Did she feel guilty for all the nasty things she'd said about the

town as a teenager, or was she just tired of fighting the system?

Skye put on a freshly washed and ironed white cotton blouse. As she began to button it, her glance strayed to the fashion monstrosity thrown across her bed. Sighing, she re­luctantly shrugged out of the top and donned the official Ghokeberry Days T-shirt. The front of the shirt featured a picture of Mrs. Gumtree, star of Mrs. Gumtree 's Gumdrop _ Lane, a children's TV show produced in Chicago. Printed on the back was:

SCUMBLE RIVER CHOKEBERRY DAYS

High School Band Competition—Thursday, August 27

August 28, 29 & 30

Cow Chip Bingo

Fish Fry

Carnival

Arts & Crafts

Beer Tent Go-Kart Racing

Only people wearing this shirt were to be allowed "backstage" at the parade, but it was a hideous pink, sup­posedly the same shade as chokeberry juice, and Skye felt ridiculous in it. Small comfort that the men forced to wear the shirt would feel even more ludicrous.

Skye had barely buckled her seat belt and turned on the car radio before she arrived at the parade's staging area. Nothing in Scumble River was farther than a five-minute drive. It was a small farming community grouped around a downtown that lacked adequate parking space. Most of the larger businesses had long since moved to the outskirts in search of asphalt. The floats, bands, and official cars were meeting in the block-long parking lot shared by McDon­ald's, Walters' Supermarket, and the Ace Hardware store at the edge of the city limits.

The parade's route was all of a mile and a half long, fol­lowing the two main streets that bisected Scumble River. Its finish line was at the other side of town near the railroad tracks and the river, where another large parking lot could hold all the participants.

Skye pulled her car into a narrow spot between a bat­tered brown truck with a wire hanger stuck into the space where an antenna should have been and a bright red motor­cycle. After maneuvering her way out of the tight space be­tween her door and the other vehicle, she began to look for Charlie.

Squeezing between vehicles and people, she came to a float representing the high school's football team, the Scumble River Scorpions. It was done all in red with a huge black scorpion crouched in the center. A blood-like substance dripped from its stinger onto the pros­trate dummy dressed in a rival football team's uniform. Several football players and cheerleaders were adding finishing touches to the gore, but there was no sign of Charlie.

An equestrian group was gathered off to the side, the riders grooming their massive mounts. The horses' coats gleamed brightly: black, white, brown, and roan. The peo­ple themselves sparkled with rhinestones and glitter.

Her next stop was a white convertible on loan from the Scumble River Lincoln-Mercury dealership. Apparently Mayor Clapp, the owner of that business, was taking no chances on anyone forgetting that his company had pro­vided the car, as it had huge placards on both front doors. Mrs. Gumtree would ride in solitary splendor in the back­seat.

Close by, a large motor coach acted as the TV star's dressing room. It was on loan from Clay Center's RV dealer, as its large billboard pointed out.

Another sign, this one hand-lettered, stated:

DO NOT DISTURB

NO AUTOGRAPHS

ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ADMITTED

THIS MEANS YOU!

Skye smiled to herself as she continued her search for Charlie. She hoped the trailer had good soundproofing and a sturdy lock because no sissy sign would keep out the citi­zenry of Scumble River if they took it into their heads to visit Mrs. Gumtree before the parade.

After wending her way past the high school band, a troop of clowns, and the Lions Club float, Skye's T-shirt was sticking to her back and her feet were beginning to burn. She could smell the aroma of hamburgers coming from the nearby McDonald's. Her stomach growled, re­minding her that she hadn't had anything to eat since dinner the night before. I've had it. If I don't find Charlie in the next ten seconds, I'm going back to my car and he can find me if he wants my help so badly.

Taking a left at the next float, Skye began to head back toward the parking area. She heard Charlie before she spot­ted him. He was yelling at Fayanne Emerick, the owner of the liquor store across the street from his motor court.

Today Fayanne was dressed in the official Chokebeny Days T-shirt, two sizes too small, and red stretch pants. To Skye, she looked like a raw sausage oozing out of its cas­ing. Fayanne's mouth was puckered tighter than the shrink wrap on a package of meat and her X-ray eyes looked as if they could bore a hole into Charlie's skull. Fayanne was poking him in the chest with her right index finger.

Skye hesitated, not wanting to get involved in whatever trouble Fayanne was trying to stir up, but also not wanting to forsake Charlie in his hour of need. Before she could set­tle on a course of action, Fayanne stalked off.

Charlie spotted Skye and motioned for her to come over. At close to six feet and three hundred pounds, Charlie

Patukas was not easily ignored, nor his wishes disregarded. He wore his standard uniform of gray twill pants, limp white shirt, and red suspenders. His expression implied he'd seen it all—twice—during his seventy years. He began talking before she could ask what was up with Fayanne. "Skye, you look beautiful. I'm so glad you finally put some meat on your bones."

"Thanks, Uncle Charlie. What a sweet thing to say." At least someone, besides herself, was happy with the new curvier Skye.

Charlie went on smoothly, "I'm glad you're here. I need a woman's touch."

"For what?" Skye backed up, prepared for flight.

"I need to talk to Mrs. Gumtree, to tell her what to do in the parade, but she doesn't answer her door."

"I saw her dressing room while I was looking for you. If the sign on the door is any indication, she doesn't want any company."

Charlie took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. "I'm not company. I'm the grand marshal, and I need to give her some instructions. I'll bet she wouldn't pull this shit if the director from her TV show wanted to talk to her. For crying out loud! It's less than an hour 'til show time and I haven't even met the woman yet. No one has. Except for the storytelling yesterday, she hasn't come out of her trailer."

"I'm sure she's afraid she'll get mobbed by kids wanting her autograph."

He held up one hand and clutched his throat with the other. "I've pounded on that trailer door 'til I bruised my hand, and I yelled until I was hoarse. She knows it's not kids wanting her autograph, she's just being a pain in the—"

Skye interrupted before he could get into a full-blown description of his true feelings on this matter. "So, you

want me to go injure my hand and lose my voice too, right?"

"Yep. I figure you can psychoanalyze her out of her trailer."

Giving him a dirty look, she turned to go. "What am I supposed to say if I do get her to open the door? Maybe you should come with me."

"I've got to go talk to Wally about who he's assigned for the parade's police escort. I'll check on you in ten minutes or so."

Skye stood on the top step of the motor coach's metal stairs and knocked. There was no response—not that she expected any. If Mrs. Gumtree could ignore Charlie's bang­ing, it was a sure bet she wouldn't be motivated to open the door by Skye's puny efforts.

Next she called, "Uh, Mrs. Gumtree." She felt asinine calling a grown woman "Mrs. Gumtree," especially through a closed trailer door.

No reply. She raised her voice and tried again. "Mrs. Gumtree, I'm not a fan." Skye realized how bad that sounded as soon as it left her mouth.

She was beginning to feel desperate, which prompted her to yell as loudly as she could, "Look, Mrs. Gumtree, I'm from the parade committee. Mr. Patukas, the grand marshal, needs to speak to you right now."

Nothing. Skye grabbed the knob, intending to rattle the door, but on her first shake it swung open. She braced her­self and stuck her head into the room. To the left was the kitchen area. A divider blocked her view to the right. She called out again. Silence.

Stepping inside, she stopped for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. As she edged past the panel, she could see the section of the trailer previously hidden by the room partition. It contained an immense dressing table with a mirror surrounded by lights and a padded bench,

turned on its side. All the drawers of the dressing table had been pulled out and their contents scattered on the floor.

Suitcases and a garment bag were turned inside out, their linings slashed. A makeup case, its contents oozing into the green carpet, lay on its side, the hinges broken. Peeking out from under the bench were feet shod in pointy rolled-up-toe shoes. It looked as if the remains of the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz were crumpled on the trailer floor.

Skye ran over and pushed the bench aside. "Mrs. Gumtree, are you all right?"

There was no answer or movement, but she still couldn't see the whole person, as the head and torso were in the knee-well of the dressing table. She crouched down and reached into the recess, trying to find a pulse, and felt something sticky instead. When she withdrew her hand, it was covered with blood.

Pressure, Skye thought, fighting to stay calm. / should apply pressure to the wound. But I can't see where it is. Should I drag her out of there? No. You aren't supposed to move people who are injured.

Stop it, she commanded herself. You can do this. You've been trained to remain detached. You've got to distance yourself.

This isn't grad school. This is an actual emergency. Do something constructive. Skye sank to her knees. The sour taste of bile surfaced in her mouth.

She tried to disconnect her emotions. Is she alive? Find out.

Skye crawled forward and steeled herself to reach back into the blackness. Stretching as far as she was able, not wanting to slip and land on the woman, she pressed her fin­gers into the bloody neck. No pulse.

Before she could make a decision about her next move, someone started pounding on the door.

Things were happening too fast for her mind to process. Skye reacted instinctively. "Who is it?"

"Goddamn it, Skye, who do you think it is? Santa? Let me in." Charlie's voice was unmistakable.

She stood up, mindful to touch nothing—all those years of watching Dragnet reruns were paying off at last.

She walked to the door, gathering her thoughts before speaking. "Charlie, listen carefully. Something has hap­pened in here and you can't come in. I don't want to touch the knob on this side of the door, but since it isn't locked you can open it. Don't come in, just open the door and then step aside, so I can come out."

The door swung open and Charlie plunged into the room. Skye grabbed him by the arms and propelled him back out. He tripped on the top step, stumbled down the re­maining stairs, and landed in a sitting position on the ground.

He looked up at Skye, who was closing the trailer door as if it were made of eggshells. "What the hell was that about?"

Skye tried to speak but felt tears clogging her throat. / will not cry. Instead, she held out her right hand, still cov­ered in blood.

"Did you cut yourself?" Charlie looked confused.

"I think Mrs. Gumtree has been murdered." Skye leaned against the closed door.

When Charlie didn't speak, Skye asked, "Did you find Chief Boyd?"

Charlie got up from the asphalt and dusted off the seat of his pants while still staring at the blood on Skye's hand. "Yeah, he's over by the Vintage Cars."

Taking a deep breath, Skye descended the stairs and sat down on the bottom step. She found a tissue in her pocket and tried to clean up her hand. "Why don't you go get him? I'll sit here and make sure no one goes inside." Skye saw

that her knees were shaking, and she thought she might vomit.

Charlie started to walk away, but turned back before he had taken more than a few steps. "What if the murderer is still in there?"

Looking around, she spotted one of her many cousins heading their way. "Kenny, Kenny Denison. I need some help over here."

He waved, trotted over, and sat next to her. "What's up?"

When Charlie still didn't move, Skye touched Kenny's bulging forearm and asked her uncle, "Do you think anyone will mess with me while Kenny is here?"

Charlie took a good look at the nineteen-year-old and turned away. "Fine. I'll get Wally."

A camouflage-green T-shirt with the message IF YOU AB­SOLUTELY NEED IT DESTROYED WITHOUT QUESTION BY TOMOR­ROW, YOU NEED THE UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS was

stretched taut across Kenny's muscular chest.

"Who's messing with you? Why's Charlie got blood on his sleeve? Why's he getting Chief Boyd? You don't need the police. I'll take care of whoever's bothering you." Kenny stood and balled his hands into fists.

Skye reached out to Kenny with her left hand, pulling him back down onto the step, careful to keep her right hand concealed behind her back. "Thanks, Kenny. I know you'd help me, but I'm okay. Someone else is in trouble."

"Who? What's going on?"

"Mrs. Gumtree, the TV star who was going to be in the parade, seems to be dead."

"That tiny little old lady on the kids' program? What happened? Did she have a heart attack?"

Skye considered saying yes, but could think of no reason to answer dishonestly. "No. It looks like she was mur­dered."

"What?" Kenny bellowed.

"Charlie asked me to get her. She wasn't answering her door. When I tried, the door was unlocked, the place was ransacked, and she was on the floor. Charlie is afraid the murderer might still be in the trailer, so he didn't want me to wait here alone. Please, let's just wait for the chief. I'm going to start crying if I talk any more."

Kenny leaped to his feet once again and faced the door. He asked over his shoulder, "Is there another way out? What makes you think the perp is still in there?"

She shuddered. "I don't know that he is. When I was in­side I didn't see or hear anyone. Of course, I wasn't paying much attention at the time. He could have been hiding in the bathroom, I suppose. There probably isn't another door, but there are plenty of windows."

"We'd better get some people over here to secure the perimeter." Kenny trotted off, calling over his shoulder, "I'll go find your brother and the cousins."

Skye sat still for a moment, catching her breath. It was quiet. The trailer was fairly isolated, and the crowds had moved to the parking lot in anticipation of the parade's start. Closing her eyes, she said a prayer for Mrs. Gumtree's soul. Suddenly a loud bang reverberated through the air. Skye jumped off the step and turned to look at the door. It was open and swinging back and forth on its hinges.

I'm sure I closed that door. Didn't 1 feel it catch? Skye tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Oh, my God, the murderer must have still been in there.

Before she could react, a heavy hand descended on her shoulder, and she screamed.

CHAPTER 3

Send in the Clowns

Skye sat alone in the squad car watching police officers go in and out of the trailer. She was still a little embar­rassed about having screamed at the chief when he first ar­rived at the scene and put his hand on her shoulder. Especially since he convinced her that the door had been blown open by the wind.

Charlie and Kenny, along with everyone else in the area, were banished behind the yellow crime scene tape draped around the parking lot's border. Two harried officers tried to get people's names and addresses before the crowd dis­persed. Three more were busy keeping folks behind the tape.

The townspeople had been drinking steadily from their coolers since they began to gather for the parade at eleven o'clock. They were angry when its cancellation was an­nounced, and seeing the police made them curious. Fights were already breaking out among the more well lubricated of the group.

When Chief Boyd first arrived and saw the body, he questioned Skye about her movements inside the trailer. Upon learning that she hadn't touched anything except the outer doorknob, the vanity stool, and the corpse, he ordered her to sit in his squad car and talk to no one.

Since that time it seemed to Skye as if every Scumble River police officer and Stanley County deputy there was had arrived. She was up to thirty when she lost count. Peo-

pie, mostly men, in blue or khaki uniforms swarmed over the crime scene like ants over a piece of candy. One was taking photographs, another was videotaping, and yet an­other appeared to be drawing a picture of the site.

Around one o'clock a hearse arrived. The man driving it walked straight into the trailer without looking at either the throngs of onlookers or the police. Skye couldn't see who it was from where she was seated, but he carried a doctor's bag.

She was staring out the window without seeing anything when the opposite door was abruptly yanked open. Startled, she let out a yelp. She didn't recognize the man sliding in next to her, and he wasn't wearing a uniform. Acting on in­stinct, Skye flung open her door and stumbled out of the car.

As she ran toward the trailer, Skye hoped to find Chief Boyd, but instead a Stanley County deputy she didn't know grabbed her by the upper arms and spun her around. "Whoa there, Missy, where you goin' in such a hurry?"

Looking over her shoulder, Skye struggled to free her­self from his grip. The stranger had emerged from the squad car and was now leaning against the trunk. When he saw her looking at him, he waved.

The officer holding her had a name tag on his tan shirt that read "Deputy McCabe." He was not the type of per­son Skye would have picked for protection. Not only did Deputy McCabe strike her as missing a few buttons on his remote control, but physically he reminded her of Barney Fife on The Andy Griffith Show. She would have preferred Marshal Dillon from Gunsmoke. All those years of watch­ing reruns as a child had left an indelible impression on her.

Skye pointed to the man by the squad car. "See that guy over there?"

Barney Fife didn't answer.

"Is he a suspect? He got into the police car with me."

Still no response from the deputy.

"Did you guys forget you told me to wait there in the squad car?"

Deputy McCabe took his time before speaking, examin­ing the man by the car who was now engrossed in writing something in a pocket-size notebook. "Why, that there is the coroner, Mr. Simon Reid."

She frowned. "Doesn't the coroner have to be a doctor?"

"Well, Miss, I don't know about places like Chicago or New York, but around here the coroner has always been the owner of the funeral parlor."

Shaking her head in disbelief, Skye thought, Being back in Scumble River is worse than I imagined. Things here truly are fifty years behind the times. Before she could pur­sue that line of thought, Chief Boyd emerged from the trailer and joined them.

"Why, Skye, honey, what are you doing standing here in the hot sun? We don't want you passing out on us. You were white as your mama's sheets when I first got here. I told you to wait in the squad. That's why I left the air-condition running."

Skye blushed. When Chief Boyd had first come to town as a twenty-three-year-old patrolman, she'd been convinced she was in love with him. Back then Walter Boyd was a handsome young man who filled out his crisply starched police uniform superbly. He had warm brown eyes, curly black hair, and a gorgeous year-round tan. But his most at­tractive feature was his kind and generous nature.

The summer she was fifteen, Skye discovered his work schedule and managed to turn up wherever he took a break or stopped for a meal. He was always a perfect gentleman, never mocking her or taking advantage of the situation. Nevertheless, she was embarrassed to remember how lovesick she had acted, and she now found it difficult to look him in the eye. She also had a hard time calling him anything but Chief Boyd.

Time had been kind to him. His uniform still fit excep­tionally well, revealing only a hint of thickening at his waist. The silver in his hair made him look, if anything, more distinguished.

"Sorry, I didn't know Mr. Reid was the coroner, and he frightened me when he got into the car without any warn­ing."

Deputy McCabe gestured toward her with his thumb. "Yeah, she thought he was the murderer. She shot outta that squad like a bat outta hell."

"What do you find so amusing, Deputy?" Chief Boyd asked. "That seems a sensible precaution, considering we don't have any idea who the killer is and he might think Miss Denison saw more than she did."

Skye shivered. She hadn't considered that the murderer might think she was a witness.

Chief Boyd turned to her. "Why don't you go back and introduce yourself to Simon? He has some questions he wants to ask you. I think he moved to town after you left. His uncle, Quentin Reid, up and died about eight years ago. Quent never married, and he didn't have any kids, so Simon inherited the funeral home. Simon is Quent's brother's boy."

She nodded to the chief, understanding his reasons for the genealogy lesson. In Scumble River you were an out­sider, and not to be trusted,, unless you could prove your connection to someone from town.

Gritting her teeth, she walked over to Simon and held out her hand. "I'm Skye Denison. Chief Boyd said you wanted to speak to me?" It was hard having to face a per­son you had just run away from.

Simon straightened and took her hand in a firm but not crushing grip. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Simon Reid, the coroner."

Raising her eyes to his, Skye discovered that he was well over six feet tall and very attractive in a Gary Cooper

sort of way. The silence lengthened, and she realized that she had been staring at him for several minutes. Blushing, she looked away.

He did not seem the least bit uncomfortable with her in­spection. Instead, he leaned back against the fender and crossed one long leg over the other. His next statement sur­prised her. "Miss Denison, tell me about the blood you had on your hand."

For some reason his self-confident attitude irritated her. "I prefer Ms. Denison. Why do you need to know about the blood, Mr. Reid?"

"Do you know what a coroner does, Ms. Denison?"

"No, Mr. Reid, I do not know what a coroner does. Something with dead bodies, I presume."

His slight smile did not reach his eyes. "To save a lot of time explaining why I'm asking the questions I'm asking, I'm going to explain the duties of a coroner to you, Ms. Denison."

Nodding, she waited for him to continue.

"The number one duty of the coroner is to conduct the inquest, but at the crime scene we take vital signs, draw blood—directly from the heart if possible—and take urine samples from the bladder."

"You don't perform the autopsy?" Skye shifted from one foot to the other. This was getting a little more graphic than she liked.

"No, we need a licensed medical examiner for that. We hire a guy from the county hospital to do the actual cutting. He uses the specimens I've collected at the scene to run toxicology screens and lab tests."

"So, what do you want to know? I was in the trailer all of five minutes, so I didn't see much. I can't even tell you what the victim looked like."

"I'm most interested in your description of the blood. Wally mentioned that you had quite a bit on your hand when he arrived." Simon moved closer.

"Yes, I must have stuck my fingers right next to the wound while I was trying to find a pulse, but I couldn't see what I was doing because the body was under the vanity. I know you're not supposed to move injured people, so I didn't want to drag her out from the knee-well." Skye explained all this in one breath, still feeling as if she should have done more.

"All I want you to do is to picture the blood on your hand right after you first saw it."

Skye closed her eyes and tried to think about the earliest instant she looked at the blood on her hand. After a long pause she said, "It was bright red. At first I thought I'd cut myself."

"Good. It looked like new blood. What was its consis­tency?"

She tried to reconstruct the scene in her head. "It was runny, more like chocolate syrup than molasses but not as thin as oil."

"Great. That's exactly what I needed to know."

"Why?"

"It will help pinpoint the time of death," Simon said, then added, "I hope."

"I don't understand why it took you so long to get here. It was over an hour and a half since I found the body and reported it to Chief Boyd."

"The police have to take all their pictures and gather their evidence before they call me to take the body. I've tried to convince them that they should notify me immedi­ately and let me examine the scene, but we have so few homicides I haven't been successful."

"How many murders have you handled as coroner?"

For the first time Simon looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat before answering. "This is the first mur­der, but I've done suicides and accidental deaths."

Skye raised one eyebrow. "That's not quite the same thing. You must be feeling somewhat anxious. There have

been so many cases lost in court due to the evidence being spoiled at the scene. I read an article in Time magazine a few years back that said something like sixty-five hundred murderers each year go free, most because of coroners who were not well trained. I didn't realize at the time that many were not physicians."

"The only thing I'm nervous about is you. We didn't get off to a very good start." His golden-hazel eyes sparkled. "The reason the funeral director in small towns is usually also the coroner is simple. We own the hearse and we have a place to store the body."

He was attractive, and as everyone kept pointing out, there were not many appropriate men Skye's age in Scum­ble River. She surreptitiously glanced at his left hand. He wore no wedding band. Of course, that didn't prove any­thing. One strike against Simon was that he reminded Skye of her ex-fiance. It had been only a few months since they broke up, and the pain was as sharp as ever.

She smiled. "I'm sure you didn't mean to scare me ear­lier, and I am sorry for screaming and running away when you got into the car."

He waved away her apology with a gesture of his hand. "No problem. After what you've been through, I'm sure most girls would have been frightened."

Girls! Biting her tongue, Skye managed a thin smile in response to his chauvinism and decided to change the sub­ject before she was forced to tell him what she thought about that remark.

The shock of finding a body had worn off, and her nat­ural curiosity was beginning to take over. Tilting her head to the side, Skye looked up at Simon through her eye­lashes. "Why, how gallant of you to be concerned for my feelings."

She wondered what he was honestly thinking as they smiled at each other. She would bet money he couldn't fig­ure out her real thoughts.

After a few minutes of silence, Skye opened the door of the cruiser. She sat sideways, with her feet still outside the car. "How did Mrs. Gumtree die? Is there any way it could have been an accident? I realize the trailer was trashed, but could she have done it herself, then fallen somehow?"

"I don't see how it could be anything but murder. She was stabbed in the jugular vein. That's why there was so much blood."

Skye paled slightly, but her inquisitiveness won out. "Was she robbed?"

"They don't think so. It looks more like a search than a burglary."

"Isn't that odd? What would anyone be looking for? Who around here would even know what she had with her?" Skye leaned forward, intent on the puzzle.

"That's not all that's odd. When we finally got her out from under that dressing table, she turned out to be in her thirties, not her sixties."

"Are you sure it's Mrs. Gumtree? When I saw her per­forming yesterday, she looked like Granny from The Bev­erly Hillbillies, only shorter."

"It's her, all right. We found the wig and makeup she used to make herself look old. Also, she was wearing the costume." Simon took a small notebook from his pocket.

"Do you know her real name?" Skye stretched her neck, trying to get a look at the pad from which he was reading.

"No. We asked Charlie, and he said there was no formal contract for her appearance today since she wasn't getting paid. So, they have no idea who she really is. The only thing we know for sure is she isn't in her sixties."

"I guess they'll have to get in touch with her agent."

Simon continued almost to himself. "She was really a very tiny person. I haven't measured her yet, but I'd guess she wasn't even five feet tall and couldn't have weighed ninety pounds."

"Then almost anyone could have killed her," Skye said.

CHAPTER 4

Call Me Up

Around five, the police finally allowed Skye to leave. Even though she was hungry, she did not want to see anyone she knew or answer any more questions. This nar­rowed her options to driving to Kankakee, which would take almost an hour, or returning home and hoping she could find something in her fridge.

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 caus­ing 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 unvarying color that it had to be dyed.

As the silence lengthened and Lloyd showed no indica­tion of talking, Skye sat back in the chair and crossed her legs. Although she had been taught to wait, because often the most interesting revelations came when people grew uncomfortable with silence, waiting was still extremely dif­ficult for her.

Lloyd rearranged the objects on the desktop, aligning the blotter carefully with the edge of the desk. Turning to a fresh page on his legal pad and selecting the most perfectly sharpened of his pencils, he finally looked at Skye. "I do not run a democracy. We do not vote on issues. I solicit opinions, but make the final decisions myself. Do you have a problem with that?"

Skye struggled to remain composed, while allowing her­self the time she needed to formulate a suitable response. "So you're saying it's important to you to feel in control of the school you are responsible for?"

A puzzled look crossed Lloyd's face. "Well, yes, I guess that's what I am saying."

Skye found herself able to read Lloyd's thoughts as he realized that this discussion was not progressing in the manner he had envisioned. He began to feel uncomfortable, and she saw him struggle to regain control of the conversa­tion, floundering as he persisted, "Is that a situation you can live with?"

Concentrating on not losing her cool, Skye leaned for-

ward. "You want to know if I'm going to respect your au­thority, right?"

"Well, yes, that's one way of putting it. Are you?" he in­sisted.

"Of course, I will back you in any matter that is not against my professional ethics." Skye gave him an insin­cere, yet dazzling smile. "But I'm sure you would never suggest anything less."

Lloyd seemed flustered, and sat silently for some time before continuing. "Let me give you a brief summary of my school. We have one special education teacher, and she has two assistants. There is a school nurse and speech patholo­gist whom we share with the rest of the district. We do not currently have a social worker, so with the addition of you, me, and an occasional visit from the representative from our co-op, that pretty much makes up our PPS Team."

"When does the Pupil Personnel Services Team meet?"

"Every other Tuesday, starting tomorrow, at eleven-thirty."

"What special education cooperative are we with?"

"StanCoCo."

"And that stands for... ?"

"Stanley County Cooperative. Any more questions?" Lloyd's tone made it clear that he found her queries tire­some.

Ignoring this, Skye proceeded, taking out a pad and pen­cil. "How do we handle fulfilling the components of a case study evaluation without a social worker to do the social history? How does all the counseling get done?"

"We don't need a social worker to do a social history. What we've done in the past is have the nurse address the medical segments and the psychologist deal with the adap­tive behavior, family structure, and so forth."

Skye frowned, thinking, / will definitely have to take a look at the Illinois rules and regulations to see if this is legal. I'd also better check with the Illinois School Psychol-

ogists Association as to whether it's ethical. And, if it is, I'd better brush up on taking social histories really soon.

Lloyd was looking at Skye as if he expected to be praised for his resourcefulness. "Oh, how clever," she said. "Maybe we can talk more about this later."

Without warning Lloyd changed the subject. "You were the one who found that body yesterday, right?"

Nodding, Skye sat straighter, wondering where this was leading.

"It must have been extremely frightening. You probably didn't have a chance to notice much . . ." Lloyd's voice trailed off, encouraging her to fill in the details.

She knew he wanted something, but she couldn't imag­ine what. "No, I was in and out in a couple of minutes. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. Just curious. I didn't even know the woman, for heaven's sake."

"Oh, you sounded like maybe you had a specific ques­tion in mind."

He stood abruptly and walked to the door without com­menting. "Why don't I take you to meet some of the team?"

He was halfway through the main office before Skye could gather her belongings and follow him. Keeping an eye on his retreating figure, she hurried after him. Lloyd was of medium height and build, but he moved as if his legs were as long as a basketball player's. Skye didn't catch up until he was already most of the way down the central hall.

Skye was wearing the coolest professional clothes she owned, a short-sleeved lilac linen shirtdress with matching high-heeled pumps. Midwestern style valued matching ac­cessories, but after trying, without success, to keep up with Lloyd's quick pace on the highly polished and slippery linoleum, she immediately resolved to buy lower-heeled shoes—no matter what the color.

She rounded a corner in time to see Lloyd enter a class-

room near the back of the building. Judging from its loca­tion, she knew without asking that it was the special educa­tion room. Such classrooms were usually as far away from the front door as the structure of the school allowed.

Upon entering, Skye spotted Lloyd with a woman in her thirties. She was much taller than average and cadaverously thin. When she held out her hand for Skye to shake, her nails were bitten so short they looked raw. Her grip was listless.

The room was painted bile-green and held only a black­board, a teacher's desk, and twelve student work stations, the type where the chair and table area are welded together. It was obvious that they had interrupted the teacher as she was attempting to liven up the room by putting various posters and pictures on the walls.

Lloyd introduced them. "Darleen, this is our new psy­chologist, Skye Denison. Skye, this is our special education teacher, Darleen Boyd. She's married to the police chief."

Skye checked Darleen's reaction to Lloyd's having gra­tuitously announced her husband's occupation. Even by Scumble River standards his remark had been a bit sexist. Darleen remained impassive. Her short baby-doll dress re­vealed twiglike arms and legs. No one spoke.

Searching for something polite to say, Skye settled at last on, "How nice. My mom works as a police dispatcher."

Before Darleen could reply, Lloyd broke in. "Where are your assistants?"

"They're with the kids in their mainstream classes. Re­member, last year the PPS team decided to put the aides in regular classes to help the special ed kids?" She nervously smoothed her hair, which was a dull brown and cut as if a bowl had been placed on her head for a pattern.

"How about the nurse and the speech therapist? Surely they're not in the classrooms too? They should be around." Lloyd scanned the room as if the people he sought might be hiding behind the desks.

"Abby's in the health room, but I haven't seen Belle. She's probably at the elementary school." Darleen studied the poster she had just hung on the wall, not meeting Lloyd's eyes.

Turning to Skye, Lloyd asked in an affronted tone, "Did you meet Belle Whitney, the speech and language therapist, at the elementary school when you were there earlier?"

"Why, no, I spoke with the principal on Thursday, and she gave me a list of meetings. She ran out of time before she had a chance to show me around the school or intro­duce any of the faculty or staff."

Lloyd nodded in satisfaction.'"Let's pre'ss on, then. At least I can introduce you to the nurse."

"Could you show me where my office is, too?"

"It's on the way." A line appeared between Lloyd's eye­brows.

Skye moved closer to Darleen. "It was nice meeting you. Would it be convenient for me to come back this afternoon so we could discuss your program and how my services might fit in with it?"

Looking uneasily at Lloyd, Darleen's hazel eyes bulged alarmingly. "Sure. I'll be here until four. We can talk then. We don't want to keep Mr. Stark waiting."

As Skye followed Lloyd back toward the front of the school, she pondered Darleen's attitude. She appeared much more subservient, even fearful, than other special ed­ucation teachers Skye had met.

Skye was convinced that the room Lloyd indicated as her office had started life as a janitor's closet. Its window-less walls were painted an egg-yolk yellow, and the smell of ammonia made her sneeze when she pushed open the door. A battered desk and a single metal folding chair crowded the small room.

Turning to Lloyd, who was hovering outside the door­way, Skye said, "I don't see any secure area for confidential files. I'll need a locking file cabinet."

He scowled. "I suppose you'll have a whole list of things you absolutely have to have. Just remember we aren't a rich district like the one you came from."

Nodding, Skye said, "I understand, but I do need a place where files can be kept locked up." She aimed the next sug­gestion at his ego. "Maybe we could put them in your of­fice. Of course, I'll need a key."

"My office is not a storage facility. I'll make sure you get a cabinet." Lloyd took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the sweat that had suddenly appeared on his brow.

The health room was located beside the main office, but with a separate entrance. It was very small, with just enough room for a brown vinyl cot, a locked cabinet, a desk, and a chair.

Lloyd was standing in the doorway tapping his foot when Skye caught up to him. He moved to one side and gestured for her to go in. "Abby, this is Skye Denison, our new school psychologist. Skye, this is Abby Fleming, our district's school nurse."

With that statement Lloyd walked away, saying over his shoulder, "You two talk, I'll see you both at the PPS meet­ing tomorrow."

"Wait—we haven't even discussed my duties yet." Be­fore Skye could follow, Lloyd closed his office door.

His voice came from behind the glass panel. "Talk to my secretary. She'll give you a schedule. I'll be busy the rest of the day."

Skye stared after him as if she were waking from a nightmare, and then turned to Abby, hoping for a friendly reaction. "Tell me this is unusual for him. He's under a lot of pressure, right?"

Abby looked Skye over before indicating that she should take a seat on the cot. "No, I'm afraid he's always like that."

Skye examined Abby carefully. She was everything Skye would like to be—five feet ten and built like an ath­lete. Her white skirt showed off her tanned, muscular legs to advantage and was paired with a tucked-in navy polo shirt and spotless white tennis shoes". More striking than pretty, she was the kind of woman who would fit in better at a health club than a cocktail party. Skye knew her brother had been going out with Abby, and now she understood why—Vince always had been attracted to physical perfec­tion.

As silence once again threatened to engulf her, Skye wondered if everyone in this school was the quiet type. Scrambling for a topic of conversation, slie searched the bare walls for inspiration. Finding none, she remarked, "So, you're dating my brother?"

Hearing no response, Skye leaned forward. "Vince, Vince Denison is my brother."

"Yes, I know." Abby tucked a strand of long white-blond hair behind her tortoiseshell headband.

Rearranging her skirt and smoothing her own hair, Skye waited for Abby to continue. When she didn't speak, and gave no indication that she intended to, Skye scooted to­ward the end of the cot. "Have you worked here long?"

Abby nodded. Set against the fairness of her brows and lashes, her large aquamarine eyes dominated her face.

Smiling her encouragement, Skye waited, although Abby's persistent silence was beginning to get on her nerves. Abby did not look up; instead she began filing her nails.

Skye waited a while longer, then stood up. "It is obvious to me, that despite Lloyd's suggestion that we talk, that we have very little to say to each other. I think it would be best if I left you to your busy schedule." At this Skye stared sig­nificantly at the empty desktop.

She paused with her hand on the knob. "Sorry to have taken up so much of your time."

Abruptly, Abby burst out laughing. Skye was sure this was going to be her first nutcase at her new job and was frantically trying to recall how to react to hysteria.

Before Skye could act, Abby regained her composure. "Boy, Vince really has you pegged."

"Pardon me?" Skye responded stiffly.

"Chill. Sit back down. Relax. Vince told me nothing would drive you crazier than for me not to talk to you." Abby got up and tried to take Skye by the arm.

"What?" She shook off Abby's hand.

"Vince said that ever since you were children everyone has always confided in you. He claimed even strangers come up and spill their guts."

"So?"

"When he asked me to test out his theory, I figured, What the heck? What would you do if I didn't respond as you're used to having people respond? If someone you were expecting to be friendly wasn't? Vince knew you'd ei­ther get angry or cry. He thought you'd get angry; I voted for cry."

"You're telling me you were willing to make me cry just to test out my brother's silly theory? That's a pretty sadistic thing to do to someone you don't even know. I've always suspected that nurses enjoyed giving those painful injec­tions." Skye held her temper with great difficulty.

Abby patted Skye's knee. "You're right, of course. It was a mean joke, and I apologize. I guess I wasn't thinking about it from your point of view. I'm not very good about putting myself in other people's shoes. But do you realize how hard it is on Vince, being the brother of Miss Perfect?"

"Now what are you talking about?" Skye's head was be­ginning to ache.

"Don't be modest; You were a straight-A student, never got into any trouble. You not only went to college but also to graduate school, not to mention your noble sacrifice when you joined the Peace Corps. Let's face it—you are every-

one's darling, and now you've moved back home. How would you like to be the older, less successful sibling?"

Skye shook her head. It felt odd to be described as suc­cessful. True, she had done well at the University of Illi­nois—only a hundred miles away from Scumble River, but light-years from it in terms of lifestyle.

But her stint in the Peace Corps was not the noble sacri­fice that Abby described. Instead it had been a place to hide when she couldn't face coming home to Scumble River and found there were no jobs for someone with a bachelor's de­gree in psychology. And graduate school had been two years of being made to feel never quite good enough.

This was followed by a year of internship—something akin to being an indentured servant. Not to mention being fired from her first job for insubordination and being jilted shortly afterward by a fiance who was more in love with his own social standing than with her.

"My brother thinks of himself as unsuccessful?" Skye allowed herself to be led back to the cot. "I had no idea. I'm sure a great psychologist," she said sarcastically. "I don't even know what my own brother is thinking."

"Vince is hard to read. He turns on the charm if he thinks you're getting too close. Besides, how often have you seen him since you moved away?"

"You're right. A lot of things seem to have changed in the twelve years I've been gone. Maybe it's a good thing I came back after all."

CHAPTER 6

Suspicious Minds

Later that afternoon, the door to Skye's office banged open and Lloyd entered the room. "Well, you certainly have managed to make yourself comfortable. I suppose you'll want a couch and your own coffee machine next." He examined the desk, chair, and file cabinet closely. "None of our other psychologists had an office to them­selves. They took whatever room wasn't in use when they stopped by."

Skye bit her tongue, counted to twenty, and breathed deeply—all the while trying to refrain from explaining that perhaps that was one of the reasons they had such trouble keeping support staff, such as social workers and psycholo­gists.

Instead she made herself smile. "Yes, I want to thank you for all your help. The other schools seemed unable to assist me." She was very proud of herself when no trace of sarcasm leaked out.

Lloyd puffed out his chest. "I'm the one to see in this district if you need something. Those other two principals don't have the influence I have. The superintendent and I are fishing buddies, you know." He completely disregarded the fact that he had done nothing. The secretaries had arranged everything.

Once Lloyd left, Skye spent some time organizing the confidential special education files she had found. The search had turned out to be more like a scavenger hunt than

the simple task she was expecting. After being directed to at least ten different locations, she finally located the fold­ers in the basement next to the cleaning supplies. They were moist and smelled like a mixture of mold, pine scent, and lemon.

Taking the records from their damp cardboard boxes, Skye put them into her new file cabinet, stopping now and then to separate pages that were sticking together. They completely filled one drawer and part of the second. She didn't attempt to read them, but was content with putting them into some recognizable order... like alphabetical.

After an hour of sorting out the records of the students currently enrolled in the Scumble River Junior High special education program, she looked at her watch and realized she hadn't been back to talk to Darleen. She stuffed the re­maining folders into the cabinet, locked it, and hurried to the special ed room. She arrived just in time to find Darleen locking the door.

Skye apologized, and they made another appointment, for the next day during Darleen's planning period. Darleen seemed relieved that she didn't have to talk to Skye that day after all.

It was nearly five that afternoon, and Skye had finished up at school only half an hour ago. She rested her hip casu­ally against the registration desk of the Up A Lazy River Motor Court and scanned the small office, noting that little had changed in the years she'd been away. The walls were still painted a drab brown, the desktop was still scarred and in need of refinishing, and the only chair remained occu­pied by her honorary Uncle Charlie, who was busy barking orders into the phone.

When she had first arrived, Charlie's gray color and rapid breathing had scared her. He'd just been ending a telephone call when Skye walked through the door, and she heard something about paying someone some money by

Friday. She had tried to ask what was going on, but the phone rang again, and Charlie had been on one call or an­other ever since.

At least his color was better and he seemed more like his usual self—aggravated, headed toward infuriated, possibly not stopping until he hit fully enraged. "We are not refund­ing the parade entrants' fees. Check the contract the carni­val people signed. No refunds for an act of God." He listened for a few seconds. "And I say murder is covered under that clause."

The window air conditioner labored in an attempt to keep the tiny room cool. When Skye had driven past the Scumble River First National Bank, the thermometer read ninety-one degrees. The humidity hung like used plastic wrap.

Skye dug into her purse until she found a coated rubber band. She gathered her hair into a thick ponytail and nar­rowed her green eyes against the smoke from Charlie's cigar. Tapping her fingernails on the counter, she waited for him to hang up.

He pounded on the desk and yelled, "Then check with your goddamn lawyer! Why in the hell did you call me in the first place?"

Charlie banged down the phone and ran sausagelike fin­gers through his thick white hair, then heaved himself out of the battered wooden swivel chair and swooped Skye into a bear hug.

Intense blue eyes under bushy white brows scrutinized her face. "Are you okay with what happened yesterday? Everyone treating you right? Anyone bothering you, just let me know, and I'll take care of them. Nobody better mess with my goddaughter."

She was breathless, but returned his hug. "Uncle Char­lie, you haven't changed a bit. I'm fine. They're all being nice to me. I just wanted to thank you again. I don't know what I'd have done without this job."

Releasing her, he settled back down into the creaking chair. "We should thank you. We've been trying to hire a school psychologist since the middle of last year. The last one we had up and quit in November. Said we weren't pay­ing enough for the amount of problems he had to deal with. And you know we've never been able to keep a social worker—they say we're too primitive."

Skye frowned. "What kind of problems was he referring to?"

"We never could figure that out. Sure, we've got our share of troubles. Usually at least one suicide or drowning a year, child abuse, family feuds... but that goes on every­where, right?"

Her one year of experience had ended with her being fired, so she was hardly an expert on what was usual. Not wanting to talk about her last job, Skye answered evasively, "Guess I'll find out soon enough. Maybe being from town will help."

Sighing, she leaned her forearms against the desk. "So, tell me all the gossip. What's this about Mrs. Gumtree re­ally being only in her thirties?"

"Everybody is sure talking about this murder, but no one is saying anything. It was a terrible thing, you finding her like that. We don't want anyone thinking that you're a wit­ness or anything, so you make sure everyone knows you didn't see a thing when you were in that trailer. You didn't see anything, right?"

"Nope. But everyone sure is interested in what I didn't see."

"Good. You make sure you tell everyone you didn't see anything and you don't know anything." Charlie shook his finger in her face.

"Sure." Skye shrugged. "What do you know about her? I never heard of Mrs. Gumtree before all this happened."

"She was just a character actress on a children's televi­sion show."

"Funny, I haven't heard about her from the kids."

"Her show, Mrs. Gumtree 's Gumdrop Lane, is only on in the Chicago area." Charlie finished his cigar and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray at his elbow. "But I did hear there was talk of syndication."

Skye shrugged, losing interest. "Do they have any idea who killed her?"

"The police chief is still trying to get in touch with her agent or someone from that TV station. It seems they all went away for the weekend."

She reached for the motor court's register. "Gee, I won­der if any of them weekended in Scumble River."

"Mike Young says it's gotta be someone from Chicago, like her publicist or personal manager. He says all those show business people are sinners and abominations in the eyes of God." Charlie slid the ledger out of her grasp and into his desk drawer.

"When did he become God's messenger? The week be­fore I left town, he was sent to prison for dealing drugs. Now he dresses like a lawyer and talks like a TV evange­list."

"You're way behind. Mike only spent eighteen months in prison. He's been out over ten years. He's hardworking and God-fearing now." Charlie sat back, thinking out loud. "Why, Mike's active in his church and makes a good living. That other stuff was just wild oats when he was a teenager."

"I really don't remember him very well. He was a friend of Vince's from high school, but they were four years ahead of me. Do you know anything about his jail time, or was it kept a secret?"

"Skye, honey, you been away too long if you think there isn't a person in Scumble River who doesn't know every last detail. There are no secrets here."

"Except for the murderer's identity," Skye said quietly. Moving closer to Charlie, she asked, "Who do you think killed her?"

"Well, now that you mention it, I thought I saw the prin­cipal of the junior high, Lloyd Stark, hanging around her dressing room yesterday. I only saw him from the back, so I didn't get a good look. Of course, I'm probably not a very good judge because I just plain don't like him." Charlie put his arm around her.

"Wonderful. That should make my job easy, since he knows you were behind my getting hired."

"He won't give you any trouble. He knows I won't put up with any bull. In fact, you could do me a little favor."

"What?" Skye crossed her arms and backed away.

"Hey, don't be like that. I get the feeling all is not right with Lloyd. He's hiding something from the school board. I want you to nose around and let me know if you hear or see anything suspicious."

She rolled her eyes. "Charlie, you're skeptical of anyone who has a different opinion than yours. I can't spy on my new principal."

"Don't think of it as spying. Think of it as being a good listener and an intense observer. Kind of like the job de­scription of a psychologist, isn't it?" Charlie walked her to the door.

Skye's smile was sickly. She had forgotten how convo­luted small-town politics could get.

Even for the end of August in Illinois, it was sweltering. During the day the sun had beat mercilessly on the blacktop of the motor court's parking lot, turning the asphalt into glue. Skye's T-shirt stuck to her back. She felt her sandals being sucked almost off her feet with each step as she walked across the empty lot toward her blue Chevy Impala with patchwork fenders and a crumpled hood. God, she hated that car—ugliest thing in three counties.

Skye noticed that the Brown Bag Liquor Store across Maryland Street was enjoying a brisk business. It hunkered on the river embankment like a malevolent toadstool.

In high school her classmates had often dared each other to go in and try to convince its owner, creepy old Fayanne Emerick, that they were old enough to buy beer. Skye never made the attempt, preferring even then not to take chances. She was still faintly uneasy about entering that building, al­ways having pictured underage teens tied to medieval torture devices in the back room.

The car's black interior was blistering hot. Before gin­gerly sliding behind the wheel, Skye pulled the legs of her shorts down as far as they would go, in order to cover the backs of her thighs, while making sure the bottom of her plain white T-shirt extended past the waistband. As always, the car started smoothly and idled perfectly. She rolled down all the windows—it had no air-conditioning—and put the transmission into drive.

/ wish the damn thing would die so I wouldn't feel like it was such a waste of money to buy a new one, Skye thought as she turned left on Maryland. Her brother's hair salon, Great Expectations, was the second building to the right after the bridge. This was the first time Skye had seen Vince since Christmas. He'd been out of town when she arrived last week, and with the Chokeberry Days excitement she hadn't been able to catch up with him over the weekend.

As Skye turned into the gravel lot, she saw two children hurling stones at the glass sign in front of the building. She got out of the car and strolled toward them.

They did not acknowledge her presence or stop their rock throwing. The boy looked to be about eight and the girl a year or so younger. Both were wearing grimy shorts, dirty tank tops, and sullen expressions.

She squatted between them. "Hi. It's pretty boring around here, isn't it?"

Glancing at her as if she were something he'd scraped off the bottom of his shoe, the boy selected the biggest stone from his pile and threw it as hard as he could. Skye heard the sound of glass cracking but could see no damage ... yet.

She tried again. "You know, my brother owns this place, and I'll bet he has some toys inside you could play with while you're waiting for your mom or dad."

This time the girl was the one to hurl a rock after giving Skye a defiant look.

Skye examined them carefully and thought of what her favorite professor always said: Understanding works with some kids, but most need structure and consequences.

Determining that these children were of the latter vari­ety, Skye said, "Stop throwing those stones right now. You're going to break that sign, and your parents will have to pay for it."

They both looked at her contemptuously and threw a fistful of rocks.

Without another word, she took each by an arm and marched them into the building, undisturbed by their squirming protests.

The door of the salon opened into a waiting area. A woman sprawled in an upholstered wicker chair, her dirty feet propped up on the glass table in front of her. She held a grocery store tabloid inches from her nose.

An archway revealed the styling area, where another woman sat in an elevated chair, shrouded in a plastic cape. Skye quickly sized them up and guided the children toward the one reading the paper.

This woman was in her late twenties and looked like many of Scumble River's young mothers. She had do-it-yourself dyed-blond hair and watery brown eyes. Ignoring the children, she glared at Skye. "Yeah? What d'ya want?"

"Are these your children?" Skye met her stare with a neutral look.

"Yeah. You got a problem with that?" The woman's voice became more strident, and she stuck out her chin.

In response, Skye made her speech more formal. "They were throwing rocks at the glass sign outside. I'm sure you

do not want to incur the cost of replacing it. I believe the price to be nearly two thousand dollars."

"You blaming my kids?" She shot out of her chair and put her face within inches of Skye's.

Skye took a step back. "No. I'm blaming you for how you're raising them."

The woman's eyes darted rapidly around the room. "Who do you think you are? The police?"

"Simply a concerned citizen." Skye paused for effect. "But I'd be happy to call the police if you prefer to deal with them."

The woman swept her belongings into a large, discol­ored straw purse and slid her feet into rubber thongs. Her face wore an ill-tempered expression. "I don't have to take this. I'm telling Vince."

Skye smiled and crossed her arms. "Please do. I'm sure my brother will be interested to hear why you allow your children to damage his property."

Huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf, the woman appeared to see the children for the first time. She snatched them away from Skye and jerked them toward the door. "Junior, Bambi, get away from her." Tugging at the crotch of her denim shorts, her halter top exposing a large expanse of chalk-white skin, she spun back toward Skye. "You keep your hands off my kids."

Skye lifted both hands, palms forward. "My pleasure."

As the woman scuttled out, dragging the children behind her, the little boy looked back at Skye. His smile appeared victorious, and she realized that he had gotten exactly what he wanted: his mother's attention.

The banging of the door brought Vince hurrying from the shampoo area. His long butterscotch-blond hair was tied in a ponytail, and there were beads of sweat above his emerald-green eyes. Through the window in the door he saw his customer's retreating form. "What did you do to Glenda Doozier?"

"Told her the truth."

Skye marveled at how out-of-place Vince looked for Scumble River. Dressed in chinos, a blue chambray shirt, and boat shoes without socks, he could have just stepped off a movie set.

In contrast, she'd summed up the town years ago by ex­plaining that there are white-collar communities and blue-collar communities, but Scumble River is a no-collar community. Consequently, the rednecks could be identified without obstruction.

Brother and sister stared at each other for a few seconds before Vince made the first move, as he always had since they were children, gathering her into a hug. "What have you done to yourself?"

Feeling uncomfortable, Skye plucked at her shorts and shirt. "What do you mean? I know I need a trim. That's one of the reasons I stopped by."

He shook his head. "No, I mean your weight. How much have you gained?"

"A few pounds, but it's no one's business but my own. I admit I'm calorically challenged, but I've decided to exit from the diet roller coaster."

Vince held her at arm's length and examined her. "But, Skye, you have such a pretty face. You can't let yourself go like that."

Skye stood tall. "Let's get this straight once and for all. The decision has been made. I am tired of eating less than eight hundred calories a day. This is my natural weight. I stopped dieting right after Christmas and have been where I am since April. This is what they call my set point."

"Does this have anything to do with breaking up with your fiance?" Vince questioned.

"No. And I've told you I don't want to talk about him— ever."

"Look, I know keeping thin hasn't been easy for you, but what will people say?"

"I can't believe you would care what people say, Vince. Haven't I always accepted you for yourself? Who has al­ways defended you to Mom and Dad? I've never asked you to get a more masculine job so people won't talk. How can you do less for me?"

Vince had the grace to look chagrined. "You're right, Sis. It was just such a surprise. I guess you still look pretty good. At least you filled out in most of the right places."

"Thanks a lot. I know some people won't think I look good unless I become anorexic, but I'm finished obsessing about my weight. End of discussion."

"Okay, okay. Since I seem to have an unexpected can­cellation, I can cut your hair as soon as I finish with lona." Vince gestured toward the woman in the styling chair, who had been following their conversation with great interest.

She waved.

"Great. I'll wash it myself while I wait." Skye started in the direction of the shampoo bowls but turned back. "By the way, why are you working alone?"

"Things have been kind of slow, so I had to let the re­ceptionist and the other stylist go."

Skye emerged from the shampoo area with her hair in a towel and plopped herself into the chair, still warm from lona's recent occupation. Vince whipped off the towel and started to comb out her tangles.

She squirmed and frowned at his image in the mirror. "Don't cut off too much. Only any inch or so, to get the split ends."

"Why don't you let me try something different? Maybe a shoulder-length pageboy."

Skye gave her brother a forbidding look. "No! No! No! I like it long and one length so I can tie it back or put it up."

"You're no fun."

"Last time you had fun with my hair I ended up looking like a Navy recruit."

"Fine. If that's how you feel, I'll just trim it." Vince grabbed a section of hair and held it straight up from her head.

They both turned to look as the front door opened. A UPS deliveryman held out a small package and a clipboard. "Hi. Sign right here, please."

Vince grinned and reached for the pen. "Thanks." He scribbled his name, grabbed the box, and tore it open. "I've been going crazy without these."

After the UPS man left, Skye asked, "What was that all about?"

"I misplaced my styling shears last Saturday. I've had to make do with an old pair until these got here. The other ones just aren't as sharp."

Vince continued talking as he started to cut her hair. "I'm glad you stopped by. I Wanted to ask you about dou­ble-dating with Abby and me on Wednesday."

"I don't know. She and I didn't get off to a very good start."

"Oh, I forgot. Did she give you the silent treatment?" Vince began snipping off pieces of hair.

"Yes. Why didn't you just tell me how you felt? I never knew you thought of me as Miss Perfect, until Abby ex­plained about you feeling unsuccessful around me."

"It's not a big deal."

Skye looked him in the eye via the mirror. "It sure seemed like one to me. Can't we talk about it?"

Shrugging, Vince looked away. "There's nothing to talk about."

She sighed and changed the subject. "This is the longest you've dated anyone since that awful girl in high school. What was her name?"

"I don't remember."

"Are you serious about Abby?"

"Maybe, if other things work out." Vince finished cut­ting and took out the blow-dryer.

"I'm really happy for you. I'd sure like to start over with Abby, but who would make up the fourth in this little out­ing?" Skye gazed up at him warily.

"For crying out loud! It's only dinner and a movie in Joliet, not a lifetime commitment."

"True, but I still would like to know who I'll be sharing a backseat with."

"He's a good friend of mine. You probably remember him. Mike Young."

"I saw him at the chokeberry jelly judging last Saturday. He sure hates Chokeberry Days." Skye raised an eyebrow.

"Well, he's pretty religious now. Chokeberry Days prob­ably reminds him of his wild youth."

She narrowed her eyes. "How interesting. He's your age, right?"

Vince nodded.

"Has he ever been married?"

Shaking his head, he switched off the dryer and picked up the curling iron.

Skye pounced. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing. Boy, try to do you a favor and this is the thanks I get." Vince shook his head in disgust. "You have such a suspicious mind."

"That's one drawback of being a psychologist," Skye conceded. "You're always looking for what's beneath the surface."

"So, are you going out with us or not?"

"Against my better judgment, I'll say yes. I've learned that anything or anyone that sounds too good to be true usually is."

"Mike's a great guy. He's good-looking, and he has his own business." Vince attempted to sound straightforward but failed.

"Look, I said I'd go out with him." Skye hesitated as an unwelcome thought occurred to her. "Have you asked him yet if he wants to go out with me?"

"Yep, it's all set. We'll swing by and pick up Mike first, then be at your place about six. That should give you plenty of time. You school people get off work around three, right?"

"Yeah, right," she said sarcastically. "I finally found all the files today. It looks like no one has done anything since the last psychologist left a year ago November. I'll be lucky to get out by five."

He finished curling Skye's hair, brushed her off, and folded the cape.

She jumped out of the chair and walked over to the nail polish display. "You should get a manicurist in here. I'd love to get my nails done."

"Not everyone can afford to indulge all their whims like you."

"Would I still be driving the Impala-from-Hell if I in­dulged my every whim?"

Vince busied himself sweeping up the curls of hair on the floor.

Skye made her selection, Springtime Lilac, and walked to the counter. "How much?"

Vince folded his arms. "I can't charge my sister."

"I won't come here if you don't let me pay. Besides, I cost you a customer."

He balked, then reluctantly keyed the cash register. "Nineteen ninety-eight."

Skye dug her wallet out of the bottom of her canvas tote. She gave him a twenty and joked, "Keep the change."

With a flourish Vince took two pennies from the cash register and put them in his pants pocket. "Gee, Sis, you're too generous."

"Any time. When's your next appointment?"

"In about five minutes. I try to book them as close to­gether as possible without making people wait too long."

Skye paused with her hand on the door. "Is there any­thing wrong, Vince? I mean, I'm surprised you had to let

the receptionist and stylist go. I thought you did a pretty good business."

"There is something else I wanted to talk to you about, if you have a couple of minutes."

"Sure, let's sit down. You must be on your feet all day." She headed to the waiting area.

"Let's sit in the back by the shampoo bowls. It's kind of personal."

After they settled themselves, Vince hesitated.

In her best counselor mode, Skye leaned forward with her hands held loosely on her lap. "You can tell me any­thing. It won't go any farther than this room."

"I'm short on money this month. Some extra expenses came up that I wasn't expecting, and I'm not going to be able to make the mortgage. Could you lend me fifteen hun­dred dollars? I won't be able to pay it back for a while." Vince didn't pause for breath.

Before she could reply, Vince interrupted her thoughts. "You probably don't have much money right now, but I can't ask Mom and Dad. You know the answer I'd get from them."

She nodded. "How about Uncle Charlie?"

"He doesn't have the cash either. This hasn't been a good year for the motor court."

"That's odd. Even if the motor court isn't doing too well, I always had the impression that Uncle Charlie had money from other investments."

"Me, too. But when I asked, he said he couldn't help me, he didn't have that kind of cash. What was I going to do— call him a liar?" He slumped back in his chair.

"Gee, I'm sorry, Vince, but I'm broke. My salary last year barely covered my living expenses. Would I be back in Scumble River if I had any cash?"

They sat in silence for a while, each trying to figure a way to get the money.

Finally Skye stood up. "I have an idea, but I don't know if it will work and I really hate to do it."

Vince looked at her imploringly. "I'm going to lose the shop if I can't meet the mortgage."

"Well, the only thing I have that's really worth anything is Grandma Leofanti's emerald ring. I could try to get a loan with it as collateral."

He buried his head in his hands. His heavily muscled chest heaved as he took a deep breath. "I'm quite a big brother, aren't I? Maybe next time I'll try stealing candy from a baby."

"Don't ever be ashamed to ask for help," Skye rushed to reassure him. "I only wish I had it to give. I'll try to find out by Wednesday if I can get a loan. Will that be too late?"

"If the answer is yes, it will be just in time. If the answer is no, time doesn't matter."

CHAPTER 7

If You Could Read My Mind

It was nearly six that evening when Skye walked out of Vince's salon and headed toward her parents' house. She drove back down Maryland Street, and as she approached the Basin Street crossroad the signal turned red.

"The only stoplight in town, and I never manage to catch it on green," Skye grumbled to herself.

Looking down Scumble River's main drag, Skye noted an unfamiliar sign, Young at Heart Photography. She fig­ured it must be Mike Young's studio—the one her aunt had mentioned Saturday.

Up and down the street were banners promoting the now-passed Chokeberry Days, but something had been added since they were originally hung. Each pennant had been hand-painted with a red circle and a line bisecting it, the international sign for no.

The light changed and she drove on, easing around the sharp curve after Webster Drive. She turned right onto County Line Road. Her parents' farm was about a mile east off the paved road.

Skye could hardly believe she was back. She had spent her whole adult life putting distance between herself and Scumble River. She went so far as to join the Peace Corps after graduating from college, and spent four years in Dominica, a tiny island in the Caribbean. But a single stubborn decision and all her plans were wiped out. It had taken only one long, emotional call home to get her

reestablished here in town. Mothers sometimes worked in mysterious ways.

Smiling ruefully, she mused, / was certainly eager enough to come home this time. Well, ready or not, I'm back where I started. At least my parents are happy I'm here.

The tires crunching the white pea gravel on her parents' well-tended lane interrupted her thoughts. Her father, Jed, was on his riding mower finishing up their acre of grass. When he spotted Skye he took off his blue-and-white polka-dotted cap and waved it in the air, revealing a steel-gray crew cut, faded brown eyes, and a tanned, leathery face.

On the step near the back patio, she noticed her mother's concrete goose dressed in a bikini with sunglasses perched on its beak and a bow on top of its head. It was usually at­tired in holiday garb, but with the Fourth of July long past and Halloween nearly two months away, this must have been the best her mom could do. Skye quickly checked out the trio of plaster deer to make sure they weren't similarly costumed.

Returning her father's wave, she went in the back door of the red-brick ranch-style house. The large kitchen was bisected by a counter edged with two stools. Its pristine cel­ery-colored walls looked as if they'd been painted just that morning, and the matching linoleum glistened with a fresh coat of wax.

Her mother, May, stood at the sink, cleaning sweet com. First she tore off the outer husks, then scrubbed the corn silk away with a vegetable brush. Despite her fifty-five years and short stature, May's athletic build reminded Skye of the cheerleader her mother once was. The few pounds she had gained since high school did not detract from this image.

The first words out of her mother's mouth were, "Hope you're hungry: Supper's almost ready." To May, food

equaled love, and no further words of affection needed to be spoken.

Skye noted the time on the green-and-white-flowered wall clock—five minutes after six. "Isn't it a little late for you guys to be eating dinner?"

"Dad's been up since five-thirty. He's already cut Grandma Leofanti's grass, put new seat covers on the pickup, and will be finishing our lawn in a few minutes. I dispatched from eleven to seven last night at the police sta­tion, then walked my three miles with Hester and Maggie, cleaned up the house, put up twelve quarts of corn, and slept this afternoon. You know we're busy in the summer. We hardly have time to eat."

Skye knew better than to prolong this conversation. She'd had the same one too many times before. If it went any farther, her mom would start asking what Skye had ac­complished that day—merely going to work would not have met with approval.

Instead, Skye started to set the table. The plates, glasses, and flatware were in the same place they had been for as long as she could remember. She moved the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin holder from the counter to the table.

"What are we having?" Skye asked, peering into the re­frigerator.

"Fried chicken, com on the cob—it's the last of the sea­son—Grandma Denison's rolls, mashed potatoes, and stewed tomatoes."

Skye grimaced. Stewed tomatoes, the soul food of Scum­ble River. "It's hard to believe Grandma is still making rolls from scratch at eighty-one. I stopped over there last Friday after school and she was making pies for the Lions Club to sell at Chokeberry Days."

May stopped stirring long enough to give Skye a sharp look. "Hard work keeps us all going."

Seeing that Skye was holding a brown plastic tub, she added, "Make sure you put out the real butter for Dad. He

won't touch that Country Crock stuff I use for my choles­terol." May paused and gave Skye another sharp look. "You better use the Country Crock too, since you're still carrying around all that weight you gained last year."

Before Skye could respond, the back door slammed. Jed detoured into the tiny half bath off the utility room in order to wash his hands, and came out still carrying the towel. His jeans hung low, accommodating his belly, and his navy T-shirt was sweat-soaked and torn, evidence of his hard day of work.

"Ma, I think this one's had it. You can see right through it, and it won't dry my hands no more."

Jed held the threadbare towel up to the light.

"Maybe Vince could use it at his shop. I hate to just throw it away." May walked over and examined the towel critically.

"How many times do I have to tell you? We aren't giv­ing him a thing 'til he gets over this notion of being a hair­dresser. No son of mine is going to do ladies' hair for a living. I've got three hundred acres to farm, and my son won't even help me."

May started to reply but seemed to think better of it and turned back to the stove to remove ears of sweet corn from boiling water. Jed stomped to his chair. Skye finished putting the food out and joined him at the table. May, carry­ing an enormous platter of chicken, was the last to sit.

They ate silently. Skye brooded, upset because her father still hadn't accepted her brother's choice of occupation and her mother was still nagging her about her weight. It was no use trying to change their minds, and she was tired of ar­guing with them.

Near the end of the meal, Skye's thoughts turned to the murder. "So, Mom, any news at the police station about Mrs. Gumtree?"

Nodding, May took a sip of her iced tea. "Yeah, but they're all acting really secretive. I tried to pump Roy last

night, and he just said the chief would have his hide if he blabbed anything."

"Maybe what they're trying to hide is that they're clue­less. That new coroner didn't seem too impressive."

"Sounds like you and Simon didn't hit it off," Jed said as he slathered butter on his third roll.

"He seems a little arrogant and conceited." Skye studied her plate and carefully speared a tiny bit of stewed tomato.

May tilted her head. "Seems to me that's the pot calling the kettle black."

Skye pushed back her plate. "What? Are you saying you think I'm arrogant and conceited?"

"I wouldn't say arrogant and conceited exactly." May jumped up and brought over strawberry shortcake, dishing it out without asking who wanted some. Refusing food was not an option in May's kitchen. It never seemed to occur to May that she sent mixed messages—lose weight, but be sure to clear your plate first.

Skye's mother continued, "But you are a little snobbish and sort of vain. I mean, look at what you said in your vale­dictorian speech at school."

Skye pushed her dessert plate away. One mistake, twelve years ago, and not even her own mother ever let her forget. "You just don't understand the difference between self-esteem and egotism," Skye said.

"Maybe not." May finished her cake and began to col­lect the dirty dishes. "But I do know what the Bible says: 'Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.'"

No one spoke as the two women finished clearing the table.

Finally Jed got up and headed toward the back door. "So how's the car running?"

Skye faked a smile. "Fine. It never breaks down, that's for sure."

"That car will last forever if you take care of it the right

way. If you're going to be here a while, how about I change the oil?"

Skye hid her true feelings about the car. "That would be great, Dad. I'm going to help Mom with the dishes, so you'll have plenty of time." She went to the sink and shook out the dishcloth. "If you get a chance, take a look and see if you can figure out why the seat belt on the passenger side won't unfasten."

"Will do. I'll probably need to order some parts," Jed said as he left for the garage.

May took the dishcloth out of Skye's hands and replaced it with a towel. "Why don't you talk to Vince? Maybe if he helped in the field, your dad could forget the other." Obvi­ously May had decided the subject of Skye's pride was closed.

Skye carefully dried the dish she was holding and tried to form an acceptable answer. Finally she equivocated, "Remember, I'm Vince's little sister. I'd be the last one he'd go to for advice."

"He'd listen to you if you explained about Dad." May rinsed the soap off the plate Skye was about to dry.

"Vince has had the shop for almost ten years now. He has real talent. He's happy doing what he's doing. He hated farming. He hated the hours, the uncertainty, and the dirt. It's time for Dad to give it up."

May stopped scrubbing the big black cast-iron frying pan that Skye's grandmother had also used to fry chicken when May was a little girl. "Maybe if you married someone who would help your dad in the fields ..."

"Mom, that isn't going to happen either. You and Dad have already tried to fix me up with every guy whose father owns land anywhere near ours." She twirled a lock of her hair. "Let's see, there were the two pig farmers to the south, the four Piket brothers to the west, Zeke Zadock to the north, and the triplets to the east. Presumably at least some of those eligible bachelors are married by now."

"What did we do wrong? It's not natural that neither of my children is married. What about our marriage scared you so much?"

Skye muttered, "You don't really want to know. Maybe I should tell you just for spite."

Her mother was a social butterfly, wanting to be out doing something or going somewhere all the time. Her dad, on the other hand, was a homebody, content to putter in his yard and garage. It seemed to Skye that her parents rarely agreed on anything.

Withdrawing her head and upper torso from the cup­board, where she'd been putting pans away, May gave Skye a hard look. "What's that? What did you say?"

"Nothing, Mother, talking to myself. How do you like dispatching? I was surprised at Christmas when you told me you were taking a job—especially that one."

"A little extra money is always good. Besides, it's been pretty lonely here with you gone and your brother on his own." May looked sideways at Skye. "So, I took the first job Charlie could get me."

"Did Charlie help Vince too? It looks as if everyone but Dad owes Charlie their job."

"Well, in a way. You can never tell your dad this, but he co-signed Vince's loan for me shop."

"Mmmm, I always wondered how Vince got the money. I knew Dad didn't give it to him, so I thought maybe you had managed to slip it to him somehow."

"Your dad and I don't have that kind of money, you know that. Besides, I'd never go behind your father's back." May snapped the towel out of Skye's hands and folded it across the rack.

"Are you working tonight?" Skye asked.

"Yes. I've got the eleven-to-seven shift again. Things are really crazy with that Gumtree woman getting herself killed and all."

Skye checked her watch and discovered it was already

past eight o'clock. "Time to get going. There's still a lot of unpacking I've got to get done. I don't know where the past week has gone."

"Why couldn't you live here? Your room is ready for you, and you could save all that money you're paying for rent. How much are you paying?"

"I'm used to having my own space. You'd be as uncom­fortable with me back home as I would be living here." Skye avoided revealing exactly how much her rent was.

"Well, why didn't you at least move back sooner? I could have taken some time off and helped you unpack and get settled."

"Don't you remember me telling you I needed to finish some cases after school got out? There were several meet­ings scheduled that I had to attend."

May pouted. "We didn't even have time to go shopping for school clothes."

"Mo-o-ther." Skye drew out the single word to show her extreme displeasure.

"Okay, okay. I hope you wore something nice for your first day."

"Yes, Mother. I wore clean underwear, too."

At first May scowled at the impertinent retort, but seeing Skye's grin she wavered, and then started to giggle.

They were both laughing at that oft-repeated line by the time they walked out the back door and watched Jed finish with the Impala.

He wiped his hands on the rag sticking out of his back pocket. "I'll have to order a part for your seat belt. I got it undone, but don't let anyone use it. It'll probably take a couple weeks to get the new buckle. With the age of this car, parts are hard to find."

Skye nodded and looked around for the family's pet Labrador retriever. "Where's Chocolate?"

"I had to put him in the pen. He wouldn't leave me alone."

"Chocolate's only a puppy, Dad. You've got to train him. I'll give you some books on behavior management. It's like what I do with kids. If he does what you ask, you reward him. When he does something inappropriate, you give him consequences."

"The only thing that dog understands is a kick in the ass."

"Da-ad."

Feeling besieged by both parents' attitudes, Skye thanked her father for the oil change and her mother for supper, all the while sliding into her car and anticipating her escape down the lane.

CHAPTER 8

You've Got a Friend

Skye didn't realize she was holding her breath until she felt herself exhale. What was it about her parents that impaired her verbal abilities and made her react like a twelve-year-old? Although they were wonderful, down-to-earth people, they could not accept either of their children making adult decisions. She loved them dearly, but they drove her crazy.

She relaxed against the car seat and retraced her route as far as the stoplight on Basin Street. Here she turned left and headed toward her cottage. This six-block area of Scumble River's business district contained Stybr's Florist, from which Skye had received her first corsage; the Strike and Spare Bowling Alley, where she went on her first date; and Oakes Real Estate, from whom she rented her cottage. Mike Young's studio, the bank, and the dry cleaner were also situated on that modest stretch of road.

She sighed. Scumble River was so much the same as when she'd left, it was hard to remember she wasn't eigh­teen anymore.

Upon reaching home, Skye put a load of laundry in the machine and started to unpack a carton of books. She stopped to admire the built-in bookshelves lining the great room's outer walls between the sliding glass doors.

Working steadily, she stopped only to put wet clothes in the dryer, soiled clothes in the washer, or clean clothes in drawers and closets. She had lost track of the time when the

phone rang but glanced at the microwave's clock before she answered it. Its digital readout glowed 11:06 P.M., too late by Scumble River's standards for a social chat.

"Hello?"

There was no answer, and Skye was beginning to think she was the victim of an obscene call when she heard someone crying.

"Hello, who is this?"

Another pause, then finally a voice said, "It's Mom. Hold on."

Skye's heart stopped. If her mother was calling this late and crying, it could mean only one thing. Someone in the family had died.

After a few minutes, May continued, "Skye, it's your brother."

Her eyes began to tear, and she sank suddenly to the floor. "Vince? What happened to Vince?"

"He's been arrested for the murder of that Gumtree woman."

"What?"

"They have him at the police station right now. They were just bringing him in when I got to work. Wally wanted me to go home, but I said I'd go on and work my shift." May's voice sounded more steady as she told the story.

"Does he have a lawyer?"

"No, there's no one here but Vince, Wally, and a few other officers."

Skye's thoughts were coming fast and furious. "Okay, Mom, do exactly as I say. I don't have time to argue or ex­plain. Put the phone down and go tell Vince to say ab­solutely nothing until I get there with an attorney. If they try to stop you from seeing him, push your way in. They certainly aren't going to risk hurting you. Make sure Vince understands not to say anything. Not one word. Put your hand over his mouth if you have to. Do it right now."

The sound of the dial tone surprised her. Skye had been

sure she'd have to argue with her mother to get her to do anything that rude.

Now the problem was to find a good lawyer with experi­ence in criminal law. Skye flipped through her address book, trying to remember which of her sorority sisters had become the hotshot attorney in Chicago. When she'd joined the Peace Corps, she'd lost touch with most of her college friends, although she was always conscientious about keep­ing her address book up to date. Finally spotting the name, she punched the numbers into the phone so hard she broke her fingernail.

As the phone rang and rang, Skye chewed on the nail's jagged tip and chanted in her head, Be home. Come on, be home.

On the tenth ring the phone was picked up and a groggy voice answered, "Yes?"

"Hi, this is Skye Denison, from Alpha Sigma Alpha. Is this Loretta Steiner?"

"Yes. Who did you say you were? Is this a sorority fund-raising drive?" the voice asked in a bewildered tone.

"No. Look, you were a senior the year I pledged. During second semester I lived two doors down from you in the house. My mom made those special thumbprint cookies everyone loved." Skye hurried to explain before Loretta hung up the phone.

"Yeah, I remember you. You had the most striking green eyes I'd ever seen. What's up?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, but if memory serves, you be­came a lawyer and you practice criminal law. I think I've seen you in the Tn'fe?" Skye clutched the receiver.

Loretta answered cautiously, "Yes, I'm an attorney and my practice does include criminal cases. Are you in trouble with the law?"

"No, not me, but the police have just arrested my brother for murder. Will you represent him? Can you come right now?" Skye's voice cracked.

"Where do you live again? Scrambled Eggs or some­thing quaint like that?"

"Scumble River. It's seventy-five miles south of Chicago, off of 1-55. Take the Scumble River exit and follow that route until you come to Coal Mine Road. Turn left. You'll go over some railroad tracks—Scumble River's version of a speed bump—and a bridge, then turn left again on Maryland Street. The police station is on the corner of Maryland and Kinsman."

Loretta's tone became sober. "Okay, it will take me about an hour and a half to get down to you. Are you at the police station?"

"No."

"All right. Give me your number, the number at the po­lice station, and your cell phone. When we hang up, go im­mediately to the station and tell them you've retained me. Don't let your brother answer any questions."

"I don't have a cell phone." Skye slipped on her shoes.

"That's okay. Just give me the other numbers and get to the station as quick as you can."

"Thank you. Thank you so much." Stretching the cord as far as possible, Skye was able to grab her keys from the table in the foyer.

"Don't thank rne yet. I have two questions, then we both need to get going. What's your brother's name and did he do it?"

Skye took a deep breath. "His name is Vince Denison and no, he did not do it."

Scumble River's police department was housed in a two-story red-brick building bisected by a massive double-deep three-door garage.

Accessible from both streets, the police department oc­cupied half the main floor, with the jail and interrogation room on top. Offices of the city hall were on the other side

of the building, and the town library was on the second floor of that half.

When Skye arrived, shortly after midnight, the city hall/library part of the building was dark. Her mother's white Oldsmobile and her father's old Ford pickup were the only vehicles in the parking lot. To add to her feeling that she was the last person left alive on Earth, Skye saw an empty squad car in the open garage.

There was no one behind the counter when she walked through the frosted-glass door, and the phone was ringing. Standing on tiptoe, she reached over and felt for the lock-release button located under the counter's lip.

Upon foiling these elaborate security measures, Skye let herself in to the dispatch area. The telephone continued to ring.

"Mom?" Skye called.

Silence except for the ringing phone.

She tried again. "Is anyone here? Should I answer the phone?"

Afraid it was Loretta trying to reach her, Skye picked up the receiver. "Scumble River Police Department. May I help you?"

"May, is that you?" Mayor Clapp's distinguishing whine came through the handset.

"No, sir, it's her daughter. May's not feeling well at the moment," Skye said. I'm sure Mom really is sick. I know I feel like throwing up.

"Uh, well, uh, you tell whoever's on duty that dog is back in my yard raising a ruckus. I want them to drop what they're doing and get over here right now. Do you hear me, girl?"

"Certainly, sir. I'll relay your message. Have a good night."

Walking into the hall and to the bottom of a flight of stairs, Skye yelled as loud as she could, "Mom, Dad, where are you?"

Chief Boyd came hurrying down the stairs. "Boy, I'm glad to see you, Skye."

She interrupted him. "Why have you arrested my brother?"

"He's not under arrest. We just brought him in for ques­tioning."

"At this time of night? What's he got to do with Mrs. Gumtree's murder?"

He moved closer. "Look, I can't discuss this with you. Could you just come up here and convince May that she doesn't have to sit with Vince? Really, I'm not trying to railroad him. I just want to ask him some questions. The rest of the men have gone home."

"Sorry, Chief, I was the one who told her to do what she's doing. His attorney should be here soon, and she'll straighten things out."

"Well, at least tell your dad he doesn't have to wait. He keeps dozing off. I'm afraid he's going to fall off his chair."

"Fine, I'll get Dad to go home. Don't you try anything funny with Vince." As she climbed the stairs, Skye added over her shoulder, "By the way, Mayor Clapp called to re­quest your services. It seems there's some dog that's keep­ing him from getting his beauty sleep, and he'd like your assistance in removing it, ASAP."

Sitting at the dispatcher's station, Skye waited for Loretta to arrive. The chair was armless and covered in shiny green vinyl. She thought it served more to keep the dispatchers alert during the long stretches of time when nothing was happening than to make them comfortable.

Although she'd persuaded her father to go home and rest, she decided that May was the best protection Vince could have, next to a lawyer. Skye had been waiting there for over an hour, and now she expected the attorney at any minute. In the meantime, she had been instructed by May to

answer the phone. So far, that wasn't a problem. It hadn't rung.

Chief Boyd had called one of his men at home and or­dered him to take care of the mayor's dog problem. He'd been less successful in finding a substitute for May.

The Scumble River Police, Fire, and Emergency Depart­ments shared a common dispatcher. Four middle-aged women each worked thirty-two hours a week, rotating be­tween the afternoon and midnight shifts. One woman worked straight days during the week. They covered the phones and radios, as well as doing paperwork for the offi­cers. None was willing to climb out of bed at midnight and come down to the station, although all wanted to know what was wrong with May.

Despite the uncomfortable chair, Skye was starting to doze off when the buzzer on the police station door sounded and Loretta Steiner marched in. Six feet tall and well muscled, she was even more impressive than Skye re­membered. Everything about her was genuine, from her coal-black hair to her dark-brown skin.

Loretta didn't bother with preliminaries. "Where's my client?"

Matching the lawyer's demeanor, Skye opened the door between them and motioned Loretta through. "He's in the interrogation room at the top of the stairs. My mother and the chief of police are with him."

"What's your mother doing there?"

"Seeing that the chief doesn't question him. She was the best protection I could think of until you got here." Skye led her toward the stairs.

"Where's everyone else?" Loretta looked around the empty room.

"This is a small town. There's not much personnel avail­able at any one time. My mom's the dispatcher on this shift, and Chief Boyd couldn't get anyone else to come in, so I'm

answering phones. By the way, when you get up there, tell my mom to come down and take over."

Striding past Skye and up the stairs, Loretta muttered about small towns and not liking to leave Chicago. Halfway up the stairs she turned and called down, "Skye, they ever see a black woman lawyer here before?"

Skye smiled for the first time since her mother's phone call. "No. There are no blacks in town, and there sure aren't any women lawyers."

Loretta whooped. "Well, we're going to have us a good time tonight."

CHAPTER 9

Maybe Baby

Six o'clock Tuesday morning came too early for Skye. She had never enjoyed rising at the crack of dawn, and having had less than four hours of sleep did not improve her disposition. Her first thought when the alarm went off was to wonder if she could get away with calling in sick. After a brief consideration, she decided that doing so might be frowned upon after having worked only six days.

At almost the same moment, the idea that maybe she'd better save her personal and emergency days for Vince's trial popped into her head. She firmly shoved that thought back down into her subconscious, refusing to even contem­plate Vince's being treated as a criminal.

Sitting on the side of her bed with her head in her hands, Skye tried to gather the energy required to take the next step and get into the shower.

Abruptly the hypnotizing music coming over her clock radio was interrupted by the WCCQ weather announcer's voice. "Well, folks, you'd better sit yourself down in a big tub of ice, because we're going to break all records for heat and humidity set on this day in history."

Groaning, she began to search her mind for something to wear. Some of the rooms at school were air-conditioned and some were not. It depended on when that particular ad­dition had been added and how much money had been in the budget at the time.

Following a quick shower and a cup of Earl Grey tea,

she dressed in a short-sleeved empire-waist cotton-knit dress. Remembering the problem she'd had keeping up with Lloyd Stark on Thursday, Skye chose to wear white flats instead of the heels that matched the dress. She hoped the Midwest fashion police would forgive her lapse. She was undecided about panty hose, so she stuffed a pair in her white canvas tote, just in case there was some school rule about bare legs. But since her dress's hemline reached al­most to her ankles, she hoped no one would even notice. At the last instant she wove her hair into a French braid to keep it out of her face.

It was tough knowing what to wear on any given day. In the morning she might be sitting on the floor with the kindergartners, and the afternoon could find her at a meet­ing with the superintendent. Her wardrobe had to be more versatile than a one-man band playing Tchaikovsky's 7872 Overture.

The drive to Scumble River Junior High took less than five minutes, allowing Skye to be in her makeshift office by seven-thirty. With her first Pupil Personnel Services meeting not until eleven-thirty, she would have plenty of time to prepare a list for the PPS team of students who needed reevaluations or counseling.

She worked steadily until her door burst open and Ur­sula Nelson, the school secretary, flew in. "Come on. Mr. Stark wants to see you."

"Okay, I'll be there in a minute." She started to put the folders she was working on back together.

Ursula's beetle-brown eyes bored into Skye. "Mr. Stark does not like to be kept waiting."

"I'll come to the office as soon as I've secured these files."

Ursula turned without another word and rushed out of the room.

Skye inserted the loose papers back into the various records and placed them in the file cabinet. She then con-

scientiously pushed in the metal bolt and made sure the drawer was locked. Smoothing her hair and dress, she grabbed paper and a pen and set off for the principal's of­fice.

Lloyd was pacing in front of the doorway when she ar­rived. Without saying a word, he hurried inside, apparently expecting her to follow. Once they were both past the threshold, he shut the door. "We have a problem."

"Yes?"

"One of our students, Travis Idell, an eighth grader, spent the summer having parties while both his parents were at work."

So far Skye was unimpressed. "Yes?"

"They were pretty wild parties." Lloyd seemed to think Skye should understand without him having to go into de­tail.

"And this is our problem in what way ..."

"The other kids were all from this school or the elemen­tary." Lloyd clarified, "They were mostly eleven and twelve, but some were only ten."

Skye was starting to have a bad feeling about where this was leading. "What did they do at these parties, get drunk?"

"I wish it were as simple as that. They did disgusting things."

"Like what?"

Lloyd turned red and muttered, "They played games, sex games."

She took a few steps and sat. Lloyd must have thought this was a good idea because he sank into the adjoining chair.

"This is terrible, of course, and I'm sure many of those kids will need to see a counselor, but I'm still not clear on how this relates to school." Skye crossed her legs. "You're aware that the school is required to provide counseling ser­vices only if the emotional problem directly impacts a child's ability to learn?"

He sighed. "Yes, I know, and so far it hasn't impaired their learning, if we strictly interpret the law. On the other hand, word has gotten out about this, and since school has started, Travis has been beaten up every day by angry brothers and cousins of the girls involved."

"Let me see if I have a correct picture of what's been oc­curring." Skye jotted a few notes on her pad. "Travis's par­ents no doubt are denying that anything took place this summer, while demanding we do something to protect their poor innocent baby boy. Right?"

Lloyd nodded.

"Calls are coming in from the other parents wanting to know why we haven't expelled this demon from hell." Skye looked at Lloyd for confirmation.

He nodded once again.

"So—we need to think of something that will satisfy both sides."

"Precisely. What do you suggest?"

"Has DCFS been called? We have to report any suspi­cion of abuse or neglect, and it sounds as if Travis may have abused the other children or the Idells may be guilty of neglect by not having provided adequate supervision for Travis. Although, I must admit, I've never quite understood what criteria the Department of Children and Family Ser­vices uses. Regardless, we are mandated to report."

"The parents of one of the girls involved called DCFS a couple of days ago. Her mother got suspicious when the girl cried every time she was made to undress. Her parents finally got her to tell them what was wrong. That's how this all got started. Once the DCFS started interviewing the var­ious kids, everyone in town knew something was up. News around here spreads like a heat rash in summer." Lloyd's leg jiggled like a Slinky.

Skye considered their options until Lloyd's fidgeting drove her to speak. "Okay, I have a recommendation, but it's going to cost the school some money."

Lloyd grimaced. "Let's hear it."

"We make arrangements to home-teach young Mr. Idell until either the excitement dies down or DCFS makes some kind of move." Skye persisted before Lloyd could interrupt her. "By providing a home teacher we kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. We satisfy the Idells that we're pro­tecting Travis from the children who are beating him up, and we appease the other parents by removing him, tem­porarily, from his alleged victims."

After a moment of thought, Lloyd got up. "This could work. How long do you think we'll have to pay for a home teacher?"

"That depends on a lot of things. Such as what DCFS decides to do and on what time schedule. I don't think I know the Idells. When did they move to Scumble River? Are they fairly affluent?"

"They relocated here about five or six years ago, I'd say they're comfortable. Both parents work in Chicago. With the ninety-minute commute each way they're hardly ever home. I think they do something with the stock exchange, and Travis is their only child."

"One of two things could happen. They may eventually become convinced that Travis did the things he's accused of and get him some professional help. Or they might re­main in denial, decide the whole town is against them, and put Travis in a private school." Skye underlined something she had written.

"So, how long do you think this will take?" Lloyd bounced from one foot to the other.

It was Skye's turn to sigh. "This is only a guess, but I'd say a semester would be the longest these circumstances could last without something happening to change the situ­ation."

Abruptly Lloyd ushered her out the door. "Fine. I'll check with the superintendent and get back to you if we need another option."

Finding herself staring at the closed door, she noticed it was oak with a small black nameplate on it: LLOYD STARK,

PRINCIPAL.

She thought, Principal what? Boor?

Skye wasn't able to leave school until after five, having once again missed lunch. If this continued she'd have to find some sort of food she could eat during the five minutes it took to walk from one appointment to the next. The PPS meeting had lasted past three, and before she could get out of the room, the Idells had arrived. She'd spent two hours trying to work through the issues surrounding Travis's be­havior but made little progress.

During a brief break in the conference, she had stolen a few minutes and telephoned her mother to ask if Vince planned on closing the shop for the day. May told Skye that Vince had said he'd be at work the next morning, whether he still had customers or not.

Pulling into Great Expectations about five-fifteen, Skye found the parking lot empty.

Vince was sitting on a stool behind the counter drinking a Coke and reading the Chicago Tribune when Skye came through the door.

He got up and came around to hug her. "Sis, I didn't kill her."

"I know." Skye fought the lump gathering in the back of her throat. "Let's sit down."

They settled once again in the plastic-covered chairs by the shampoo sinks and Skye asked gently, "Did most peo­ple show up for their appointments?"

"Yes. I was surprised, but there was just the normal number of no-shows."

Skye crossed her legs. "Good. Maybe that means the town's behind you. I suppose they all wanted to ask you questions, though."

"Oh, yeah, but that's pretty normal in this business. I told everyone I wasn't allowed to discuss it."

"That was a good idea."

"I was thinking of changing our double date to Friday. Both Mike and Abby said that was okay. Can you make it then?" Trailing his fingers along the basin, Vince avoided looking Skye in the eye.

"Sure, but maybe we should wait until this is all over."

"No. I want to go out. It will help take my mind off things." Vince continued to appear fascinated with the sink's enamel finish.

"When's your next customer scheduled?"

"Not until six, and that's the last appointment of the day," Vince said, relief evident in his voice.

"Then we have time to talk. What did you think of Loretta?"

"She was amazing, but then so were you and Mom. How did you know what to do?"

"I'm not sure, but ever since all this happened I've been relying on my memories of old TV shows to tell me how to act. I know I watched a lot of television as a kid, but it must have made a greater impact than I ever realized. Every time I get into a jam lately I've done what I've seen them do on TV. I think this latest one was Perry Mason." Skye had had little time for television since she'd left Scumble River, so her points of reference were somewhat dated.

"You should've seen Mom," Vince said. "Wally and a couple of his men showed up at my apartment around ten. The news was just coming on. They told me they had a search warrant and were bringing me in for questioning. It took them about forty-five minutes to tear my place apart, then they put me in the back of the squad car and took me to the station. Mom must have gotten to work just a little while before they brought me in, because she wasn't even sitting down yet. She started crying right away, but that

didn't slow her down at all. She was on the phone to you before they even got me all the way upstairs."

"Did they have time to ask you anything before Mom stopped you?" Skye posed the question she had been wor­ried about since last night.

"No. Wally was still getting coffee when Mom pushed her way into the room and told me not to say anything."

"If Mom was with you from the time I talked to her until Loretta appeared, how did Dad get there?"

"Mom used the phone in the interrogation room. Wally was so stunned by her actions I think she could have taken me home before he would have thought to object." Vince grabbed a magazine from the stand and started pleating its pages.

"Why did they want to question you? What do you have to do with Mrs. Gumtree?"

"It's a long story." Vince looked embarrassed.

Skye looked at her watch. "Then you'd better get going."

"Well, for starters, they found my styling shears in her neck."

"How can they be sure they were yours?" Skye grabbed the magazine from his hands.

"They had the shop's name engraved on them. But everybody in town gets their hair cut here. Anyone could have taken them without my noticing."

"Wonderful." Skye thought for a moment. "There must be something else."

"In real life Mrs. Gumtree was Honey Adair. Her agent finally returned from his weekend trip and identified her late yesterday afternoon."

When Skye looked puzzled, he explained, "I dated Honey in high school, the end of my senior year. Don't you remember?"

"Now I do. She was really tiny—I was so jealous. The couple of times I was near her I felt like the Incredible

Hulk. The name didn't ring a bell because Mom and Dad only referred to her as That Awful Girl.' Why didn't they like her?"

Vince shrugged. "Honey was pretty wild. She was in­volved with the druggies at school, and everyone said she slept around."

"Did she? With you, I mean?"

"Oh, yeah." Vince squirmed. "That's a big part of the problem."

"They suspect you because of an affair that took place sixteen years ago? Have you seen her since high school?" Skye was getting confused.

"She left town the day we graduated. I don't think she's ever been back."

"Wait a minute. She lived with Uncle Charlie, didn't she? I remember—she was his real niece."

"Right. His youngest sister was her mother. Her parents were killed in a car crash the summer before her senior year, and she moved here from Chicago to live with him." Vince began to fold the towels in the laundry basket next to the dryer.

"It was during that time that he told me to stop coming over to visit. I was really hurt," Skye said in astonishment.

"He probably wanted to protect you from Honey's bad influence."

"Even so, with Mom and Dad being so close to Charlie, I'm surprised they didn't at least try to pretend they liked Honey."

"Honey made it difficult for people to ignore her bad qualities. Charlie had a real rough time that year. I think he was mortified by her behavior. All I could see was how pretty she was," Vince said, looking off into the distance.

"Typical male. Thinking with your crotch instead of your brain."

Vince punched Skye in the arm. She yelped and grabbed for his ponytail. She missed, lost her balance, bumped into

a chair, and went sprawling on the floor. Brother and sister both broke into gales of laughter.

They eventually stopped giggling and Skye got back into the chair. "I still don't understand why a high school romance makes you the prime suspect. Anyone who came into the salon could have stolen the scissors."

"I haven't told you the worst part." Vince squatted in front of her. "The morning of our high school graduation Honey asked me to take her for a ride. When I picked her up, she told me she was pregnant and I was the father. All she wanted from me was enough money for an abortion and to get away from Scumble River. Honey hated this town. She said it was full of hicks."

"What did you do?"

Vince glared. "What could I do? I went home, cleaned out my savings, and gave her the five hundred dollars. She promised not to tell Mom and Dad or Charlie, and I thought that would be the end of it."

"It wasn't, though, was it?" Skye guessed.

"No. In December of that year I got a phone call from her. Luckily, none of you were home. She said she'd de­cided to have the baby after all and she wanted me to pay child support."

"Oh, my God!" Stunned, Skye sagged in her chair.

"That certainly was my reaction too." Vince smiled grimly. "I've been sending her money every month since that phone call."

"Was it a boy or a girl?"

"A boy. Wade. She only let me see the baby once. Proba­bly to convince me to pay up. But twice a year I'd get pic­tures and copies of his report cards. I never knew where she was. The money went to a post office box in Chicago, and she met me at Louis Joliet Mall."

"Did you know she was Mrs. Gumtree?" Skye reached into her tote and found her notebook.

"I've never seen the TV show, and I didn't look closely

at the posters until this morning. Even then I'm not sure I would have recognized her. The makeup was remarkable."

"This must have had something to do with you needing money?"

"Yeah, she called a week ago and said she wanted to send Wade to private school, and I needed to send her twenty-five hundred dollars by September fifth." He went back to folding towels.

"Have you sent it?"

"No. Since I've been going out with Abby I've started to think about a lot of things. I told Honey I wasn't sending any more money until after she agreed to regular visits. She threatened to talk to Mom and Dad, which is what she did every time I balked at giving her more money. But I stood firm this time."

"You paid all these years just because she threatened to tell Mom and Dad?" Skye asked incredulously.

"That was part of it. They've never been very proud of me, and I thought this would make them think even less of me. Mostly, though, it just seemed like the right thing to do. If I had fathered a child, I should support it. Honey's expla­nation of why I shouldn't see him seemed logical. Why confuse the kid with a parent who wasn't going to be around?"

"What made you change your mind?"

He shrugged. "I'm not sure. Maybe because he was turn­ing sixteen. I don't know. All I wanted was to see him. I told her I wouldn't even mention I was his father."

"She refused?" Skye was sure she already knew the an­swer.

"After calling me everything but a gentleman, she hung up. There was a message on my answering machine the next day saying she would talk to me Sunday."

"Sunday was the day she was killed. I wonder if she planned to talk to you in person," Skye speculated. "How much of this do the police know?"

"Only about the styling shears and that we dated in high school. They didn't mention a child at all, but I told Loretta the whole story."

"Good. Who else knows?"

"No one." Vince looked uncomfortable.

"Tell me the kinds of questions the police asked."

"Where was I when the murder was committed? When did I last see Honey? Things like that."

"Nothing about money or the child. Interesting." Skye jotted down a note on her pad. "Where were you when she was killed?"

"Home, alone, getting ready to pick up Abby for the pa­rade."

"Did anyone come to the door or call you on the tele­phone?"

"No. I picked up Abby about twelve-thirty. Since we were going to watch the parade from the roof of the salon, and it wasn't supposed to start until one, we didn't need to get here early in order to get a good spot." The sound of the front door opening distracted Vince momentarily.

"From the questions the coroner was asking me," Skye said, "they seem to think she was killed shortly before I found her, which would be around eleven-thirty. Plenty of time for you to stab her, go home, shower, and pick up Abby looking fresh and clean."

"Whoa, I thought you said you believed me."

Skye snapped her notebook closed and tucked it back into her tote before standing. "I do, but it's obvious that the police don't."

CHAPTER 10

Money Makes the World Go Hound

When Skye arrived at the high school on Wednesday morning, she was determined to force the principal, Homer Knapik, to give her some direction. Also, she had several questions regarding scheduling and procedures about which she needed to pin him down. Without his input there was literally nothing she could do for the high school. She didn't know what day or time the PPS meetings were held, or even how often.

Homer was not in his office, but his secretary, Opal Hill, reported that he could probably be found in the library. The school's first IBM computer had arrived late yesterday af­ternoon, and Mr. Knapik was still in the process of in­stalling and testing it.

Skye walked down the east hall of the high school, astonished at how little it had changed during the time she'd been gone. The beat-up yellow lockers and shabby lime carpet were just as she remembered. Even the faint odor of sweat, hormones, and chalk dust was the same.

The library was located in the center of the building, ac­cessible by either the east or the west halls. Homer was hunched over a stand that held computer components and several open manuals. Skye pulled up a chair from an adja­cent table and sat down.

He did not look up until she spoke. "Homer, I need to talk to you, and I need to see the confidential files so I can

get started with re-evals and find out who is supposed to be receiving counseling."

It was very hard for Skye not to address him as "Mr. Knapik"; after all, he had been the principal at Scumble River High School for twenty-five years, which included the time she was a student there.

Frowning, he looked up. "Oh, Skye. I told you I didn't want to disturb anything while Neva Llewellyn was away having her baby."

"I understand your hesitation, Homer, but I can't do my job without those folders. And I have as much right to have access to those files as the guidance counselor does."

Homer reluctantly dug in his pocket and retrieved a large set of keys, attached to a key fob that resembled a jailer's ring. He selected two keys and handed the set to Skye. "Here, the big one is for the door and the little one is for the filing cabinets. Don't take the files out of the guid­ance office, and put them back like you found them."

"Sure. She'll never know I was there," Skye said brightly.

He shook his head mournfully. "She'll know and she'll chew my butt for it." Turning back to the table, he selected a manual and paged through it, wrinkling his forehead in concentration.

Skye persisted, trying to recapture his attention. "When are your PPS meetings scheduled, and are there any other meetings you want me to attend?"

"We only have faculty meetings. The secretary can give you the dates for those, but you don't have to come." Homer didn't take his eyes from the page he was reading.

"You mean you don't meet regularly with the psycholo­gist, social worker, nurse ..."

"We don't need that here. Anyone gives us any trouble, we kick 'em out. They can't keep up in class, we flunk 'em."

"How about the kids who come to you with an Individ-

ual Education Plan in place? We're legally obligated to pro­vide whatever assistance that IEP prescribes," Skye pointed out.

Losing his patience, Homer slammed the book shut. "I told you, Neva takes care of all that."

Skye got up, clutching the keys, afraid he would change his mind and demand them back. Still, she felt obligated to try once more. "So, you never have PPS meetings or staffings or anything like that?"

"Look, if it's really important to you, talk to Neva when she gets back. You two can set things up, but I am not going to any more meetings." Homer turned his back and reached again for the manual.

Having won a small battle in what she was just begin­ning to suspect might turn into a full-fledged war, Skye hurried toward the guidance office.

It was cool and pleasant—since it was in one of the newer additions to the high school, it was air-conditioned. Although the room was dark, Skye didn't turn on the over­head light; instead she switched on the desk lamp. She no­ticed one file cabinet after another lining the walls, the drawers labeled with various years. It looked as if all the records since Scumble River High was first opened were stored in this room.

Skye unlocked the drawer identified with the most re­cent year and inspected its contents. She gathered up a pile of the most promising-looking files, hoping they were con­fidential special education records that contained Individual Education Plans, and not just cumulative folders containing report cards and group achievement tests.

She sat down behind the desk. The chair was wonder­fully comfortable, deep and enveloping, the soft black leather aged and shaped to perfection. She sighed with pleasure at the unexpected physical comfort and started to work.

First she wrote down the name of the student on her

legal pad. In the next column she listed the date on which he or she needed to receive a three-year reevaluation. Fi­nally, after reading the IEP, which usually consisted of fif­teen or more pages, Skye determined whether that child was supposed to be receiving counseling. Later she would have to go back and read the most recent psychological evaluation report on each student who was enrolled in the special education program.

Several hours went by, and Skye was about to stop for lunch when she heard a tentative tapping on the frosted-glass window of the door.

Opening it, she found the secretary standing there, twitching. "Were you looking for me, Opal?"

Opal nodded. "Oh, my goodness, yes. Mr. Knapik is out of the building and the police are here."

A sudden wave of nausea left Skye unable to think clearly. It must be about Vmce.

"Are you all right? You're pale as milk." Opal looked at her curiously.

Skye took a deep breath. "I'm fine. I must have gotten up too fast or my blood sugar's low. It's getting close to lunchtime."

"Could you talk to the police first? With Mrs. Llewellyn gone and Mr. Knapik out of the building, I'm not sure what I should do. Should I call the superintendent?" Opal asked with a touch of panic.

Shaking her head, Skye almost pushed Opal out of the room. "Why don't you ask the police to come in here where we can have some privacy? Give me a minute to put these folders back."

In the few moments it took Skye to tidy up the files and lock them away, she realized how foolish she was to think the police would come to tell her they'd rearrested Vince. The chief had been ready to put Skye in jail Monday night when he found out she was the one responsible for May's behavior and Loretta Steiner's presence. After that incident,

Skye would be the last person on Earth the police would notify.

Opal ushered Deputy McCabe and a Scumble River offi­cer whom Skye didn't know into the office. Opal left, clos­ing the door behind her. Both men stood in front of the desk and looked down at Skye.

"I'm Skye Denison, the district psychologist."

"I'm Deputy McCabe. You remember me from the mur­der last Sunday?" When she nodded he continued, "This is Officer Roy Quirk. What can you tell us about a girl named Phoebe Unger?"

"Nothing. I'm brand-new here, and I've never heard of her." She indicated chairs. "Please sit. What kind of infor­mation are you looking for?"

They sat, the leather of the utility belts around their waists creaking.

Quirk settled back and crossed his legs. "We'd like to know who she hangs out with, who her boyfriend is, what the school's impression of her is."

Skye nodded. "I'm sure we can get that information for you. It's not confidential. But Mr. Knapik, the principal, will want to know why you're so interested in Phoebe."

"That's official police business. There's no need for you to know, little lady." McCabe rubbed a smudge from the toe of his perfectly polished shoe.

Leaning forward, Skye made eye contact with each man in turn. "I certainly understand your need to keep things quiet in an ongoing investigation. And that it isn't always an easy task in a town this size. But you must understand that we need to know what you think she's done. If her ac­tions make her a danger to our other students, we must be informed."

"We've had an anonymous informant tell us that her boyfriend, who does not go to school here, may be involved in a series of arson-style fires." Quirk straightened the crease of his pants.

McCabe glared at him.

"I see. So, at this time she does not appear to be a danger to herself or others. Correct?" Skye looked from one man to the other.

Both men nodded.

"Fine. Then I'll talk to Mr. Knapik when he gets back. With his permission, I'll speak to her teachers and try to get the information you need."

Quirk handed her his card. "Call me as soon as possi­ble."

When school ended that day, Skye drove straight to the Scumble River Police Department. She was going to be a good citizen and deliver the information about Phoebe Unger to Officer Quirk in person. If, while she was there, she happened to chat with Chief Boyd about Honey Adair's murder, who would she be hurting?

Walking up to the counter, she raised her voice. "Hi, Thea. How are you? I haven't seen you in ages."

Thea Jones, one of Scumble River's longtime dispatch­ers, opened the gate and motioned Skye through, then gave her a hug. "Skye, honey, how you doin'? I'm sure sorry for the trouble your family's havin'."

Skye hugged her back. "Me, too. I hope Chief Boyd finds the real killer soon. It's just silly to think of Vince as a murderer."

"Ain't that right?" Thea sat back down. "Sometimes these men around here don't think too good. None of us dispatchers think he done it."

Leaning over, Skye kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks. I have some information on another case for Officer Quirk. Is he available?"

"Yep. He's in with the chief. I'll let 'em know you're here."

Following a short conversation on the intercom, Thea

turned to Skye. "Go right into the chief's office, honey. They both want to hear what you got to say."

Smiling to herself, Skye thought, How convenient. I won't even have to ask to see Chief Boyd.

He was standing on the threshold. When Skye ap­proached, he motioned her inside and closed the door. Of­fice Quirk was in one chair, and Skye took the other visitor's seat.

A faint smell of stale cigarette smoke lingered in the air. Skye looked around but didn't see any ashtrays, so she sus­pected the odor was from before Chief Boyd's time. His of­fice was small and windowless, its gray walls lined with file cabinets and bookshelves. Linoleum that might have been blue when it was first put down but now looked sil­very covered the floor. Shrouding the top of the chief's desk were papers of every shape and color. His chair was cracked green vinyl.

Chief Boyd sat on the edge of his desk, pushing a stack of manila files out of his way. "So, Skye, what can you tell us about Phoebe Unger?"

"Well, she certainly talks tough. No one knows if she carries out her threats, but if anyone crosses her or she thinks anyone has crossed her, she wants revenge."

Roy Quirk asked, "Can you be more specific?"

"I talked to a couple of girls she used to be friendly with last year. They seemed genuinely afraid of her—and it takes a lot to scare a teenager."

"Did they say why?" Chief Boyd looked up from the file he had been sifting through.

"This boyfriend you're investigating tried to break up with her last year. Phoebe was furious and vowed to get him back. She found out who his new girlfriend was, waited until they were out on a date, and trashed the girl's car."

"Why didn't she report it to the police?" demanded Roy.

"Was there any proof Phoebe did it?" asked the chief.

"It wasn't reported to the police because the girl was ter­rified. She refused to have anything more to do with Phoebe's ex-boyfriend. As to proof, yes, I'd say they had proof."

"You sound pretty sure. What kind of evidence did they have?" The Chief made a note in the file.

"Phoebe didn't give the boyfriend back his school jacket when he broke up with her. When they found the car, there was a dummy behind the wheel, wearing what was left of the jacket. It was stabbed through the chest with a butcher knife."

Both men looked at each other. Roy got up, excused himself, and left the office.

"Why do I think you guys are really after Phoebe and not the boyfriend?" Skye asked, trying to get comfortable on the hard chair.

"You don't want to know."

"You're right, I don't want to, but if the other kids are in danger I need to."

Chief Boyd moved from behind his desk to the chair next to Skye. He took her hand. "Do you trust me, Skye?"

She was having trouble keeping her breathing even. His tone had changed from official to intimate. "Yes, I... I guess so." Part of her wanted to jerk her fingers away, but another part of her remembered that summer when she was fifteen.

He seemed to sense her agitation. Letting her hand go, he moved away. "We'll make sure Phoebe doesn't hurt any­one else."

She would have liked to know what was going on with Phoebe Unger, but decided to let that matter drop and see what she could find out about Vince.

"Chief?"

"Do you think you could call me Wally? You make me feel a hundred years old calling me Chief Boyd all the time.

I'm only eight years older than you, and those eight years seem a lot shorter now that you're not fifteen anymore."

This was definitely not what Skye expected. She didn't know how to react. In her confusion she wasn't sure if he was flirting or just being friendly. The feelings she'd once had for him were resurfacing, but he was married, and she wasn't about to forget that.

"No, I'm far from fifteen. It seems like lots of things have changed since I've been gone. How's the murder in­vestigation going?"

"I really can't talk about that."

"Oh, I know you can't go into detail, but it must have been quite a surprise when Mrs. Gumtree's agent identified her as Honey Adair." When the chief didn't answer, Skye went on, "Or did you already have an inkling as to her real identity?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Mom says there was a lot of secret activity going on here night before last." Skye watched him carefully. "And I find it hard to believe that no one recognized her. After all, she lived here for almost a year."

Wally said, "That was over sixteen years ago. And you have to remember she didn't want to be recognized, so she stayed away from people. She only appeared outside of her trailer for storytelling on Saturday. The only ones who saw her close up were children."

"Still, the whole thing is very convenient for someone. You don't seriously suspect Vince, do you?" Skye's eyes never left his face.

"They were his scissors."

"Half the town gets their hair cut at his salon. Anyone could have stolen them."

"True, but how many people dated Honey Adair in high school?" Chief Boyd went around his desk and sat down. The barriers were back in place.

"Half the town, or so I've heard."

"But Vince was the last one before she disappeared. Why did she leave so mysteriously?"

"What did Charlie Patukas say about her leaving?" Skye put both hands on the edge of the desk and leaned forward.

"This whole thing has been quite a surprise for him. He hadn't heard from or seen Honey since she left town. I thought the guy was going to have a stroke when I told him who Mrs. Gumtree really was. And then to find out she had left him all her money—the poor old man is still in shock."

Skye worded her next question carefully, not wanting to arouse his suspicions. "Did Honey leave anything else to him?"

Chief Boyd looked puzzled. "Like what?"

"You know, property, things like that." Skye glanced at the top papers on his pile, but found nothing interesting.

"She owned a condo in Chicago, but besides that and her personal possessions, her estate is mainly cash and, of course, her life insurance policy."

"How much do you figure the total inheritance will come to?" Skye picked up a pencil from the desktop and twirled it between her palms.

He flipped open a file. "Because she was a TV star, she had an unusually large life insurance policy. It's worth a million dollars by itself. Add the condo and the cash and I'd say we're talking in the neighborhood of one point five mil­lion dollars."

"That's a pretty nice neighborhood for Charlie to move into," Skye said thoughtfully. "Of course, a move into such a nice neighborhood usually comes with a pretty high price tag."

In this case the price had been a young woman's life.

CHAPTER 11

Somewhere in the Night

That afternoon when Skye got home from the police sta­tion, her mother's car was in the driveway and she was washing the front windows of the house. With the tempera­ture continuing to hover in the nineties, May's face was an alarming shade of red, and sweat was dripping from the tip of her nose.

Skye turned her key in the locked door and entered the centrally air-conditioned cottage. She held the door open and looked questioningly at her mother. May gave the win­dow one more swipe, picked up her bottle of Windex, and went inside.

Skye headed for her bedroom. "So, Mom, is the presi­dent of the United States coming to visit, or did you just have an uncontrollable urge to give yourself heatstroke?"

May didn't respond to Skye's sarcasm. Instead she stood in the doorway to Skye's bedroom and watched her change into blue chambray shorts and a plain white T-shirt. Slip­ping on a pair of white sandals, Skye walked past her mother into the great room and sat down in a camp chair.

"You really need to get some more furniture. Where would your dad sit if he was here?" May looked at the other camp chair with distaste.

Skye was not about to be distracted. "So, you came to furnish my house as well as to clean it. Fine. Don't forget to scrub the grout around the tub, and I'd like a Queen Anne-style desk set."

Rubbing the wooden arm of the chair with her rag, May paused before sitting. "Vince needs your help."

"Oh." Skye recognized a trap when she heard one. "Has he said he wants it, or is this all your idea? I got him a good lawyer, and I know he's not back in jail. I was just at the police station."

May looked up sharply. "What were you doing there?"

"Officer Quirk needed some information on one of the high school students, so I stopped after work to give it to him. Why shouldn't I be there?"

"You were always sweet on Wally, but he's out to put your brother in jail."

"He didn't seem to be on a vendetta when I spoke to him a few minutes ago. I'm sure they're looking into other sus­pects too, like people she knew in Chicago."

"Aha, you just talked to him. I thought you said you went to talk to Roy Quirk." May stood up and attacked the inside windows.

Skye handed her mother the bottle of Windex. "I did go to talk to Officer Quirk, but he was with the chief, and so I talked to them both."

"When I was dispatching last night I looked through the Honey Adair file, and Vince is their only suspect. They aren't looking at anyone else."

"How did you get a chance to see that file? Don't they keep stuff like that locked up?"

May smiled. "I've changed a lot since I've been working at the P.D. The locks on the file cabinets are a piece of cake."

"Then what do you need me for?" Skye asked, unnerved to discover her mother had a dark, criminal side.

"You need to find out who really killed her. People talk to you. At least they should after what we paid to send you to college."

Skye narrowed her eyes as she studied her mother.

"Have you been watching Murder, She Wrote again? In real life the police solve crimes, amateurs don't."

"The police think they've already solved the case. They're too busy gathering evidence against Vince to look at anyone else. We can't afford a private detective, even if I knew where to find one. As a psychologist, you know how to make people talk and you can tell if they're lying. Plus, I can help by getting police information. I know how to use the computer at work to find out lots of stuff." May moved over to the wall mirror and began wiping vigor­ously.

Skye considered what her mother had said. I'm amazed the way people assume that because 1 have a degree in psychology, I also have magical powers. Would I be back in Scumble River if I were that good? She closed her eyes and sighed. On the other hand, Mom has a point. If the police aren 't looking for anyone else and Vince remains their prime suspect, something has to be done. Why do I have this sinking feeling that I'm about to get into trouble again?

"Okay, Mom, I'll see what I can do. I'm not sure where to start, though."

"You'll have to find out about Honey. Try to discover where she's been all these years and why someone would want her dead." May's eyes searched the room for some­thing else to clean.

"Any idea where I should begin that little task?"

Apparently sarcasm was wasted on May. "At the begin­ning. Go talk to Charlie. He knows more than he's saying."

The only light on at the Up A Lazy River Motor Court was in Charlie's cabin. Even the parking lot lay in darkness. Skye glanced at her watch. It was a little past eight, not too late for a visit. Waiting on the step after ringing the door­bell, she remembered how, when she was growing up,

doors weren't locked in Scumble River and friends just walked in unannounced.

What was taking Charlie so long? The cabin was tiny, having only a bedroom, kitchenette, living room, and bath. She was beginning to get a bad feeling when a car turned into the parking lot, its lights momentarily blinding her.

With a sensation of relief, she saw Charlie get out of the car and heard him say, "Thanks for the ride, Eldon. See you tomorrow."

When Charlie spotted Skye standing on the step, he hur­ried toward her. "Skye, honey, what are you doing waiting out here like a door-to-door salesman? Don't you remem­ber where I keep the key? You should've let yourself in."

"That's okay. I just got here. When I saw the light, I thought you were home."

Charlie frowned. "I don't remember leaving a light on, but of course my memory's not what it used to be, and after these past few days ..."

"Uncle Charlie, I'm so sorry. I had no idea about Honey."

Shrugging, Charlie unlocked the door and stood aside to let Skye enter first. She let out a gasp and stopped dead in her tracks. Charlie pushed in behind her and halted too. The cabin had been ransacked. All the cushions had been sliced open and stuffing was spilling out; the chairs were up­ended, their bottoms also slashed. Pictures were torn off the walls, their glass smashed and the photographs shredded into confetti. The carpet had been ripped up at the corners and dragged to the middle of the room.

Silently they moved to the kitchen. There the cupboard doors stood agape, dishes and glasses shattered on the floor, and food smeared on the counter. A window over the sink was open, and jelly footprints indicated that this was the way the person had entered and exited the cabin.

They found the bedroom and bath in similar shape. Charlie appeared to be in shock, all of his seventy years ev-

ident in his face. He sank down on the bed and buried his head in his hands.

Even as Skye dialed the police, she knew she shouldn't have touched the telephone. But no fingerprints had been found in Mrs. Gumtree's trailer, according to her mother's report, and she certainly wasn't leaving Charlie there alone while she located another phone.

Chief Boyd and Officer Quirk arrived with sirens blar­ing and lights flashing. Skye and Charlie were hustled out of the cabin. They climbed into Skye's car. Charlie sat with his head leaning against the back of the seat. Skye battled her conscience. One part of her wanted to leave Charlie alone, while another part of her said this was the perfect time to get information.

The practical side won. "Mom's really worried about Vince being arrested for Honey's murder."

Without opening his eyes, Charlie said, "So am I. Honey always did manage to stir things up. I guess now she's doing it from the grave."

"I know this isn't the time, but would you mind telling me about Honey? I only remember her a little."

Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, Charlie straight­ened. "It isn't all that strange that you hardly remember her. To begin with, Honey was completely selfish and had no interest in other females. At fourteen you probably didn't even exist to her. Also, your parents and I agreed that she wasn't someone we'd have wanted you to have as a role model. You may have run into her only once or twice."

"But if Vince dated her, wouldn't P have seen her more often?"

"Vince kept his relationship with Honey pretty quiet. Your parents and I didn't find out about it until the end."

Turning toward Charlie, Skye sat with one knee tucked under her, and her arm along the back of the seat. "How did she end up in Scumble River?"

"Honey's mother was my younger sister. There were only the two of us left from my family, so when she and her husband were killed in an auto accident there was nowhere else for Honey to go. Her father had no family at all."

"Is it true she was uncontrollable? Was that a reaction to her parents' deaths?"

Charlie shook his head. "No, as a matter of fact, her par­ents were looking into a military-type boarding school for Honey the day they were killed."

"Do you remember the details of their accident?"

"Their brakes failed, and they were hit by a tractor-trailer truck."

Skye whistled. "How awful. I'm sure that losing her par­ents in such a dreadful way contributed to her problems here."

"Maybe, but Honey wouldn't talk to the therapist I took her to, and her behavior when she lived with me sounded just like her mother had described it."

"People have said she was ... ah, sexually active. Do you know the names of her partners?" Skye couldn't meet his eyes.

Charlie's face turned red. "No. Back then things like that were kept more quiet." Charlie hesitated. "Honey did spend a lot of time with Mike Young. I suspected she was getting drugs from him."

"Interesting. Can you think of anyone else she spent time with?"

"No, when she first got here she behaved pretty good for the first couple of months. She got on the Softball team and spent a lot of time at practices and games, which kept her out of trouble. Then, about Thanksgiving, she hooked up with Mike, and after that she seemed to run through a bunch of boys, one after the other. She started with Vince around Valentine's Day, and her behavior improved again."

"Did Honey tell you she was leaving?" Noticing the

sweat on Charlie's brow, Skye leaned across him and opened the window.

"No. I came home after the graduation ceremony, and all her things were gone. She took my car and all the petty cash, about two hundred dollars."

"Did you call the police?"

He looked away. "No. I was glad she was gone. It seemed a cheap price to pay, two hundred bucks and an old clunker, to get my peaceful life back."

Skye patted him on the arm. "You just tell me to mind my own business if I'm getting too personal here or there's something you don't want to answer." She waited, but when Charlie didn't say anything she went on. "Where did Honey go to school before she moved here?"

"Bogart? No, Bogan High School on the south side of Chicago."

"What do you know about her more recent life?"

Charlie kneaded the fingers of one hand with the other. "Only what her agent told me when she called. Honey owned a condo on the Gold Coast in the Raven Building. She spent most of her time either taping her TV show or out on the road promoting it. The agent said Honey didn't seem to have any friends and work was her life."

"That's pretty sad. Will her agent be coming down for the funeral?"

"Yeah. I'm supposed to call her once the arrangements are made. She said Honey's producer and publicist will be coming too."

Having covered everything but the inheritance, Skye found her resolve faltering. She decided to take the plunge before Chief Boyd or Officer Quirk came to talk to them and ruined the moment. Charlie might not be so forthcom­ing tomorrow when the shock wore off.

"Chief Boyd mentioned that you were Honey's benefi­ciary. Were you surprised?"

Charlie gripped Skye's knee so hard that it frightened her. "You have to believe me, I hadn't seen or talked to Honey since the day she left here. I can't imagine why she left me her money. My gut feeling says that that money is going to bring me nothing but pain and heartache."

CHAPTER 12

A Taste of Honey

Chief Boyd finally allowed Skye to go home, just before midnight. He questioned her and Charlie separately, making each wait while he talked to the other. When the county sheriff's technicians were finished, he also insisted that Charlie go through the cabin and make a list of every­thing that had been taken. Charlie wasn't missing a single thing.

The phone started ringing the next morning at five-thirty. Skye was having a nightmare about police cars, so the shrilling of the phone merged into the sirens of her dreams, and it took her some time to understand what was going on.

"Hello?" she mumbled, still not fully awake.

Her mother said anxiously, "Where were you last night? I tried to reach you until almost midnight."

At the sound of May's voice Skye sat up and swung her feet to the floor. "When I got to Charlie's, his cabin had been vandalized. The police kept me until nearly twelve o'clock."

"Oh, my God! Are you all right? Is Charlie okay?" May's voice cracked.

"We're fine. No one was home when it happened. Noth­ing was missing, but Charlie's pretty upset."

"I'll bake him a pie this morning and go visiting this af­ternoon."

"That sounds good. He probably needs help cleaning up, too. I'll stop after work and do that," Skye said.

"You just concentrate on your new job and clearing Vince. I'll clean up at Charlie's. It won't take long, his place is so small."

"Okay, Mom, but don't overdo." Skye waited for a reply. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes, I hear you. Just remember I'm not an old lady yet." With that pronouncement May returned to her original purpose in calling. "So, did you find out anything from Charlie?"

"You called me at five-thirty in the morning to ask me that?"

"I wanted to catch you before you left for school. Tonight I'm working the three-to-eleven shift, so if you need any information, let me know."

Skye itched to remind May, once again, that she didn't have to be at school until seven-thirty, but realizing that her mom only heard what she wanted to hear, she said instead, "Let me think about it. I'll call you back in half an hour."

After showering and making herself a cup of tea, Skye sat and thought about what she'd learned from Charlie last night. Mm, Honey was in trouble before she got to Scumble River, which makes it safe to assume that she didn 't change when she moved away. It's also interesting that Honey hung around with Mike Young during his druggie period. And why doesn't anyone seem to know a thing about a child?

Skye decided she wanted May to use the police comput­ers to find out about Mr. and Mrs. Adair's accident and Mike Young's arrest record. Meanwhile, she was going to talk to some of the people who would have been in high school during Honey's senior year.

A low-pressure system had rolled in during the night, and the predawn skies were overcast and threatening rain. It was only eighty degrees, but the humidity remained near

100 percent. Skye's sinuses were throbbing, and she knew there would be a thunderstorm before the end of the day.

Her schedule called for Thursday mornings at the ele­mentary school, because of the PPS meeting at seven-thirty. Thanks to May's early wake-up call, Skye arrived in plenty of time. She had been told by Caroline Green, the principal, that the meetings were held in the special education class­room.

Standing awkwardly by the door, Skye was unsure of where to sit or what to do. She surveyed the room. Twelve desks were arranged in three pods of four each. The chairs were of molded orange plastic, designed for the height and build of six- and seven-year-old children. The sole adult chair was behind the teacher's desk.

Only a few minutes passed before Abby arrived, fol­lowed closely by two other women.

"Skye, have you met everyone?" Abby started to take the chairs off the top of the student desks.

"No, I haven't."

Abby pointed to the woman at the teacher's desk, who was dressed in a full denim skirt and a white oxford-cloth blouse. "This is Yvonne Smith, the special education teacher." Turning to the other woman, who was now seated, Abby continued, "And this is Belle Whitney, the speech therapist."

Smiling, Skye sat down next to Belle. "I'm Skye Deni-son, the new psychologist."

Yvonne was what most people pictured when they thought of an elementary school teacher—round and soft, with a halo of gray-brown curls and a smiling face.

She carried the teacher chair over to where Skye was sit­ting, then settled in and patted Skye on the arm. "Nice to meet you. I hope we'll see a lot of you down here. I could sure use some new ideas. The kids seem to get tougher every year."

Belle nodded. "Yes, and each year there are more kids who need help."

The speech therapist looked like a whipped-cream factory that had exploded. She wore her pale-blond hair in elaborate curls and waves. Her white dress was made of a gauzy mate­rial, with rows of ruffles around the neck, sleeves, and hem. Even her eyeglasses had loops and curlicues on the frames.

Skye looked at her watch. It was quarter to eight. "Does the principal usually attend these meetings?"

"If she remembers," Abby answered. "I didn't put a note in her box this time, so she probably won't show. We might as well get started." Abby flipped open her notebook.

"Okay, I'll go first." Yvonne poised her pencil over the list she had put on the table. "Since this is only our ninth day of school, I don't have any kids to discuss, but the kindergarten teachers have asked for help with a fall screening."

"What kind of help? Help administering the test?" Skye leaned over to look at Yvonne's paper.

Yvonne nodded. "That, too, but first they need a test to administer."

"They don't like the instrument they have now? Do you know if they're looking for something that measures readi­ness skills or processing abilities?" Skye rummaged in her tote, looking for a test catalog.

Yvonne laughed, not unkindly. "We've never had kinder­garten screening before. There is no test to like or dislike. They probably don't even know what they want to assess. My advice would be to start with something that tells them if the kids are ready for kindergarten. Looking at memory or the ability to distinguish one sound from another is more information than they would know what to do with at this point."

"Oh." Skye was overwhelmed by the idea of single-handedly setting up a screening for 150 five-year-olds. "I guess I'd better talk to the kindergarten teachers myself."

She flipped through her appointment book. "How about next Tuesday before school?"

After making a note, Yvonne patted Skye's arm again. "Don't worry, I'll let them know that's when you're free and they'll be there."

"I'd like to attend too, if that's okay?" Belle looked up from her own appointment book. "Since I have to screen all kindergartners for speech and language delays anyway, maybe we can pick a test that will do double duty."

"That would be great." Skye's pencil hovered. "Is Tues­day morning all right with you?"

"It's fine. I'll bring some test catalogs." Belle made a note in the margin of her book.

Abby said, "I'll be doing the vision and hearing screen­ings on Monday."

"Do you screen the whole school?" asked Skye.

"Almost. I test all the kids in special education, all the kindergartners, all the new kids who have moved in, and all of the third and fifth grades."

"Is there anything else? It's almost nine o'clock, so the kids will be here any minute." Yvonne stood.

Skye handed each of the women a list of twenty-six names. "These are the children who are past due for reeval-uation. We all have a part in the case study, so I wanted to know what timetable you all would like to follow in getting these assessments up to code."

"Well, I don't have any part in a case study," Yvonne said, picking up her chair.

Skye tried to decide the best way of phrasing her re­quest. "I know you haven't been consulted in the past, but that really was a waste of knowledge. Who knows these kids better than you? We need your input, and I was think­ing that maybe you could do the section titled 'Current Ed­ucational Functioning.'"

"But I wouldn't have any idea how to write that type of report." Yvonne let the chair drop.

"I'll give you a model to go by." It was Skye's turn to pat Yvonne's arm.

After a moment Yvonne nodded. "Okay, I've always said you guys didn't listen enough to what the teacher had to say about the student you were evaluating. I guess it's time to put my money where my mouth is. This will give me a chance to be heard."

Skye was surprised at how easy that had been. She turned to Abby. "Lloyd mentioned that you do the health history, since we don't have a social worker, and I do the adaptive part. Is this how it works in all the schools?"

"That's how we've done it in the past. But I was think­ing—I have to talk to the parents anyway, so if you gave me the social history form you want to use, I could ask them the questions on it and you could use that for your re­port. It would save both you and the parents some time."

"I'd owe you big time. I was dreading that aspect of the job. Why don't they hire a social worker?" Skye looked at all three women.

"We've tried," Abby answered. "We put ads in the pro­fessional social work journals and the Chicago newspapers. Last year we even sent a representative to the school social worker convention. Not one person signed up to be inter­viewed."

"But why?" Skye asked. "The salary is a little low, but not that far out of alignment."

Abby and Belle looked at each other. Abby nudged Belle with her elbow. "I think we've been blackballed."

Everyone laughed.

"Seriously, the social workers we've had since I've been here wanted everything to be their own way, and that's just not going to happen in Scumble River. When you add the fact that they were all outsiders, and no one in town would tell them anything ..." Abby looked to the others for con­firmation.

Belle nodded. "I've lived here for ten years, and people

are only now beginning to trust me. And I don't ask them personal questions."

"It is an advantage, having lived here all of my life." Abby stood. "Half the time I don't even have to ask ques­tions, I already know all the dirt."

Skye tapped the list she was holding. "Back to my origi­nal question. When, and at what rate, are we going to tackle this list?"

No one answered.

"How about three a month? Since the three of us are all split among three schools, I figure we're all here about a day and a half a week."

Everyone nodded.

Before anyone could say anything else, a stream of stu­dents started filling the room.

A little redheaded boy with a crew cut marched up to Skye. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. "You're sitting in my chair."

She got up and squatted down in front of him. "I apolo­gize. My name is Ms. Denison, and sometimes I have to come to your room before school. Would it be okay if I use your chair when you're not here?"

The boy smiled, revealing that his front teeth were miss­ing. "Sure, but you gotta get off it when I say so."

Skye stuck out her hand. "Deal."

Yvonne noticed the boy for the first time. She walked around her desk and stood near him. "Junior, it's time to sit down. Maybe Ms. Denison will visit you again sometime."

Junior. Where have I heard that name before? Skye tapped her chin, lost in thought.

Belle and Abby had gathered their folders and appoint­ment books and were heading out the door when Skye caught up with them. "Abby, were you in Vince's class dur­ing high school?"

"No, I was a year behind."

"Did you know Honey Adair?"

"That little ponytailed porcelain doll? How could I for­get her?"

Putting her arm through Abby's, Skye steered her toward the health room. "Can we talk?"

With a wave, Belle set out in the opposite direction.

Skye and Abby settled themselves in the health room after shutting the door. This room looked just like the one at the junior high, and Skye was betting that the one at the high school would also be the same. Abby sat at the desk while Skye made do with the cot.

"So, why do you want to know about Honey?" Abby asked, leaning back and crossing her legs.

"You know the police had Vince in for questioning?"

She nodded. "Yeah, but they let him go that same night."

"Only because the attorney I found for him wouldn't let him say anything. They didn't have enough evidence to ar­rest him, but he's still their number-one suspect. According to Mom, he's their only suspect,"

"So, what are you doing?" Abby frowned.

"My mom thinks, and I have to agree, that unless we find out who really killed Honey, the police are going to keep trying to nail Vince.

"In order to find out who killed her, I need to know as much about her as possible. Right now I'm trying to get a picture of what she was like. What do you remember about her?" Skye squirmed, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy vinyl cot, and vowed to race Abby for the chair next time.

"She was the only person I've ever met that Gandhi would have slapped."

"Why was that?"

"Honey was just plain mean. She was so tiny, you weren't prepared for her to turn on you. She went out of her way to say hurtful things to people. That one had a talent for picking out the weakest kids around and tearing them to shreds. When you add the fact that she was never interested

in a boy unless he was dating someone else..." The ex­pression on Abby's face was one of disgust.

"Boy, she was a real witch."

"With a capital B," added Abby.

Skye grabbed a pencil from the desk. "Who were some of her loves du jour?"

"Most guys were just one-night stands, and their girl­friends eventually took them back."

"So you're saying if sex were fast food there would have been golden arches over her head."

Abby didn't smile. "Before she latched on to Mike Young, he was pretty serious about Darleen Ames. They never did get back together."

"Darleen Ames. Is she Darleen Boyd now?"

"Yep."

"Who else's life did she mess around with?" Skye lifted her tote onto her lap.

"Well, we were on the softball team together that sum­mer she moved here, and she seemed very close to the coach."

Skye leaned forward. "Who was the coach? Is he still in town?"

"Sure, you see him every day. It was Lloyd Stark." Abby hastened to add, "Just remember that was only an impres­sion I had, not a fact."

"Understood. But it certainly is food for thought." She hated to broach the next question. "Who was Vince going out with when she hooked him?"

Abby looked away. "He wasn't seeing anyone seriously, but he and I had dated a couple of times."

"That must have made you feel pretty angry."

"I wanted to kill her."

CHAPTER 13

All Shook Up

A fter speaking to Abby, Skye had tried to concentrate on setting up a counseling schedule and observing in dif­ferent classrooms. At eleven-thirty she gave up and called May, suggesting that they meet for lunch. Now she sat in a booth at McDonald's, waiting for her mother and gazing out the window at the parking lot. If she craned her neck she could see the spot that Mrs. Gumtree's trailer had occu­pied. She was surprised that the area showed no trace of ei­ther the parade or the murder.

May slid onto the bench opposite Skye. "I'm glad you called me. Meeting for lunch was a good idea. This way we can discuss the case without your father knowing what we're up to."

"Why don't you want Dad to know?"

"Because he doesn't know how to keep a secret."

'That's true." Skye stood up. "I'll get our food, and we can talk while we eat. I only have half an hour. What do you want, Mom?"

"Gee, I don't know. I guess a grilled chicken sandwich and a Diet Coke. I'll eat some of your fries." May reached into her wallet and thrust a ten-dollar bill at Skye. "My treat."

"I can buy my own lunch."

They glared at each other for an instant before Skye ac­quiesced and reluctantly accepted the money. She shot May one more look before leaving to place their order.