Murder of a Small-Town Honey

Table of Contents

 

 

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.

“In
Murder of a Small-Town Honey
, Denise Swanson has written a delightful mystery that bounces along with gently wry humor and jaunty twists and turns. School psychologist Skye Denison is the quintessential amateur sleuth: bright, curious, and more than a little nervy. She is an engaging, liberated everywoman who is sure to garner her rightful share of mystery fans.”

—Earlene Fowler, author of the Benni Harper mysteries

 

—Carolyn Hart, author of the
Death on Demand
and
Henrie O
mysteries

SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

 

First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

First Printing, July 2000

Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2000

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-10030-1

Scumble River is not a real town. The characters
and events portrayed in these pages are entirely
fictional, and any resemblance to living persons
is pure coincidence.

I would like to thank the following people: Joyce Flaherty for her unflagging belief in my talent; Ellen Edwards for editorial expertise and understanding; Lucille DeGulie for being the finest English teacher on the planet; Jan Fellers, Nancy Carleton, Alex Matthews, and Carol Houswald for their efforts as the best critique group in the world; Linda Baty for help with those pesky commas and dashes; Lynn Bradley, Kathy Person, Jane Isenberg, and Aileen Schu macher, fellow writers who shared the ups and downs; Monika and Joe Bradley, Robert and Nancy Chidel, Helen Valentinas, Donna Stefan, and Sandy Kral, friends who let me talk endlessly about my ideas and aspirations; Marie and Ernie Swanson, who although surprised to find the book had been written, were supportive; and, finally, my husband, Dave Stybr, who always said yes when I asked him to read just one more revision.

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 Feedbag 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 Feedbag operated on a shoestring and couldn’t afford a big hit in the cash register. “Why would someone do that?” she asked.