Murder of a Small-Town Honey (19 page)

“Why are you so interested in a past romance? Not jealous, are you?” Mike put his arm around Skye’s shoulder.

“No, you moron,” Abby suddenly broke in. “She’s trying to figure out who killed Honey Adair, and you’re one of her suspects.”

“Talking to a man in that manner is why you’re still single, Abby.” Mike smiled cruelly.

Abby’s face mirrored her fury, but before she could speak Vince whispered something in her ear. He turned to Mike and Skye. “We’ll be right back.”

After they left, Mike drew Skye closer. “You really ought to leave the investigating to the police. An innocent young lady like yourself could get hurt asking questions of the wrong people.”

“So, you’re not going to answer my question?” She shrugged out of his embrace and scooted to the far side of the bench.

“Is there any reason I shouldn’t tell you?” When she didn’t respond, he slouched down farther and examined his fingernails. “She wanted to get married and I didn’t. Even tried to tell me she was pregnant—but she couldn’t prove it when I confronted her.”

“Why did you sic her on Vince?”

Mike shrugged, unconcerned. “He always dated such nice girls, I thought it was time he had a taste of the wild side. Now that I’ve found Jesus, I can see I was wrong. ‘There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked.’ Isaiah, chapter forty-eight, verse twenty-two.”

“Did you find God while you were in prison?” Skye asked pointedly.

“Yes, I did. I’m not ashamed of my past. I learned a trade and was born again.”

“Which church do you belong to, Mike?” Skye looked in the direction Abby and Vince had disappeared.

“The Church of Forgiveness. I founded it myself. You’ll have to come to one of our services.”

“Where is it? I don’t remember seeing a new church building.”

“It’s on Springfield, between Basin and Kinsman.” Mike slid closer to Skye.

She thought a moment. “Oh, yeah, I know where it is.” She had passed by it one day and wondered about its origins. After all, it’s not often that you see a church in a double-wide trailer. “When are services?”

“Tuesdays at seven and Sunday at eight. Why don’t you come this Tuesday?”

“I certainly will . . . if I’m free.”
Right after I dye my hair black and get a tattoo.

“You should come. It would help you after your awful experience.” Mike took her hand.

Skye wasn’t sure which awful experience he was referring to but guessed. “You mean when I found Honey’s body?”

“Yes, that must have been awful for you. I’ll bet you dropped everything and ran out screaming.”

“Well, actually, I was pretty calm when it was happening. I didn’t have my breakdown until afterward.”

“Did you see anything?” Mike didn’t seem upset when Skye withdrew her hand from his grasp.

“No. I was inside the trailer for less than a minute. I didn’t have time to look around.”

“Sometimes we see things without them registering right away.”

“I guess so, but like I said, I was there for such a short time and I didn’t touch anything but Honey.”

Mike put his arm back around her shoulders and squeezed hard. “Let’s hope the murderer believes that.”

Lonely Street

Saturday morning, thanks to the school district’s lack of a social worker, Skye found herself driving in and around the outskirts of Scumble River. While attempting to get the special education files in order, she had discovered several with no telephone numbers and only sketchy addresses. All but one family had proved to be accessible through neighbors or relations.

Earl Doozier, Jr., needed a reevaluation. In order for this testing to take place, Skye needed a signed Consent for Assessment form. Parents couldn’t be asked for a signature if they were unreachable, and since the Dooziers had no telephone number and an iffy address, obtaining permission would require the dreaded
home visit.

As she drove up and down streets, searching for the correct address, Skye thought of an assembly she had attended her senior year in high school. The speaker talked about the history of the town. Most of the other students were bored, but Skye had been enthralled. It was the only time she had found anything interesting about Scumble River, and what the man had said remained clear in her memory even now.

She could still hear his voice weaving the story of the community’s establishment. “The town of Scumble River was originally built in the eighteen-thirties in the fork between the two branches of the Scumble River. Since then it has spread along both banks. Some might say overflowed.

“Railroad tracks encircle the village. They creep up from the south and curve west before continuing north. As you all may have noticed, it’s often possible while driving through Scumble River to be stopped twice by the same train.

“Consisting of the six blocks that run along Basin Street, the center of town is like the yolk of an egg. To the west of this area, houses were built in the nineteen-thirties by Italian immigrants who were imported by the Sherman Coal Company.

“When the mines played out in the late sixties, most of the initial settlers were ready to retire. Their offspring, having served in World War II and the Korean conflict, had gained other skills and worked in the factories springing up in nearby towns. Thus the closing of the mines had little effect on the local economy.

“Children of those coal miners built their fifties-style ranch houses both north and south of Scumble River’s core, surrounding it like the egg white.

“On the extreme west there is still farmland, owned chiefly by the descendants of the first farmers, who arrived from Sweden at approximately the same time that Italians were pouring into the area. Most acreage is still being worked by the original families. But with fewer and fewer children and less interest in agriculture, this too is beginning to change.

“Two groups of people live in an uneasy alliance along the river. A few years ago, people from the city discovered Scumble River and decided to build summer cottages or retirement homes along its south bank. While this ‘outside’ interest served to line the pockets of some citizens, it invaded the privacy of others. Here is the shell of the egg, and it’s starting to crack.

“The original group of people who have always lived along the river are known as Red Raggers to the locals. No one seems sure how this term came into being, but it is definitely disparaging.”

It had been more than twelve years since Skye heard that speech, but she remembered every word. She was thinking about the way the talk had ended as she slowly steered her Impala down Cattail Path, deep in Red Ragger territory.

The man had said, “These are not folks who appreciate uninvited guests.”

Skye squinted at the faded names on rusty mailboxes. When she saw a redheaded boy who looked vaguely familiar, she stopped the car and leaned out the window. “Hi. Do you know where the Dooziers live?”

“Yep.” The boy continued bouncing his ball.

“Great. Where?”

“Said I knew, didn’t say I’d tell you.”

She thought quickly. “It’s really important that I find them. I could offer a reward.”

He stopped playing and moved closer to her car. “What kinda reward?”

Her eyes swept the front seat. A foil-wrapped packet glittered in the sunlight. She had found it in her cereal that morning and stuck it in the car to bring to school to use as a prize. Skye held it up for his inspection. “How about a set of Bulls basketball cards?”

“Depends who’s on them,” he hedged.

Skye shrugged. “It’s an unopened package, so it’s kind of like the lottery. You take your chances. How about it?”

The boy hesitated, then grabbed the cards from her hand, and pointed to the house in back of him. “Dooziers live there. Don’t tell Daddy I told ya.”

It suddenly came to Skye. Junior Doozier. The boy who was throwing rocks at Vince’s sign, the same child she had negotiated with for a chair in the elementary school’s special ed room.

Skye pulled her car into the dirt driveway and scanned the lot. Weeds lined the cracked sidewalk and choked what little grass showed between the junked cars and old appliances littering the yard. The house had been white at one time, but now was an ashen shade from long years of neglect. It looked about as stable as a house of cards. A dog’s barking echoed in the motionless air, and flies buzzed over the evidence of his recent visit to the front lawn.

She stuffed a clipboard with the consent form attached and a pen in her canvas tote bag before opening the car door. She had taken only a few steps when a heavily tattooed man sauntered out of the house’s side door. He was very thin, except for a small pot belly that hung over his boxer shorts, which were the only garment he wore.

At least it’s not Mrs. Doozier,
Skye comforted herself. “Hi, I’m from the junior high. My name’s Skye Denison.”

“Funny name, Skye.”

“It was my grandmother’s maiden name,” Skye explained, and then felt foolish for doing so.

“What ya want?”

Skye worded the next question carefully, well aware of the reputation of the people in this area—often fathers, brothers, and uncles were all the same people. “Are you Earl Doozier’s father?”

“Maybe. What’s he done?”

“He hasn’t done anything that I’m aware of, but it is time for his reevaluation.”

“His what?”

“Every three years we need to take a look at kids that receive special help and see if they still need it,” Skye explained.

“Oh, you wanna see if he’s still dumb. Don’t waste your time. He is.”

“I don’t think he’s dumb at all. In order to be classified as Learning Disabled you have to have at least average intelligence.” Skye felt she had to try to explain, even knowing it was futile. “The school just wants to see how he’s doing and if he still needs help. We just want to make sure he’s getting all the services he’s entitled to have.”

“Okay. So, whadda ya want from me?” The man was busy investigating a substance he had extracted from his ear.

“We need your written consent.”

“I don’t like signin’ things. Last time I signed somethin’ I ended up owin’ money for magazines I couldn’t make head nor tails of.” He finally gave up his analysis of the ear-wax and wiped it on his already filthy shorts.

Skye took the form from her purse and handed it to Mr. Doozier. “I promise this won’t cost you a thing. Just sign here and check these two boxes.”

He took the form and the pen she offered and scrawled his name. “Is ’at all? I got chores to do.”

“One more thing. Is there a telephone number you can be reached at?”

“Don’t got no phone.”

“What’s your mailing address, then?” Skye asked, desperately envisioning future trips to obtain consents.

He shrugged. “Jus’ put Cattail Path. It’ll get ’ere.”

 

It was almost noon when Skye pulled up to the police station. Before setting out for the Dooziers’, she had phoned her mother to ask what shift she was working that day. When Skye found out May was working seven-to-three, she decided to stop by as close to lunch as possible. By arriving then, she hoped the policeman on duty would be safely tucked away at McDonald’s or the local restaurant, and the P.D. would be clear of walk-in patrons.

Pushing the door open, she was greeted with a refreshing blast of cool air. The temperature had been lingering in the high eighties with humidity to match.

Wearing black walking shorts and a black-and-white-striped shirt, Skye had felt underdressed for a home visit. She had considered wearing something more businesslike, but the heat and the knowledge of the area’s standards had quickly changed her mind.

When she’d glanced into the open garage on the way in, she’d seen that both cruisers were gone. The chief always drove one, and the officer of the day had the other. The waiting area was also empty.

Skye pushed the buzzer, and after a few minutes May came hurrying out of the back room. “I was in the bathroom.”

When the latch was released, Skye came around the counter. “What happens if the phone rings or you have radio traffic while you’re away?”

“They call back. Or if it’s more than a few minutes, County picks up.”

Sitting in the visitor’s chair, Skye took a yellow legal pad from her tote and looked around furtively. “Are we alone?”

May nodded and settled behind the dispatcher’s desk. “Yes. Roy just went to lunch and Wally had some personal business.”

“Good. Did you get the information I wanted?”

May withdrew a copy of
Better Homes and Gardens
from her purse and put it on the counter. “Yes, the reports are between the pages of this magazine. There’s not much to them. The Adairs’ accident was nothing more than that, and you already know Mike was convicted of selling drugs.”

“Yeah, I figured as much, but I like to be thorough. I’ll take a look myself when I get some time.” Skye reached for the publication.

“Not so fast.” May whisked the periodical out of Skye’s grasp. “Tell me what you’ve found out so far.”

“You don’t have to treat me like a child. You could just ask.” Skye’s tone was petulant.

May folded her arms across her chest and stared at Skye.

Skye gave in. “Fine. I wanted to get it all down on paper anyway.”

“That’s a good idea, dear. I’ll take notes while you talk.”

“No, I’d rather write it out myself.” Clinging to the legal pad, Skye grabbed a pen.

“Whatever you say.” May got up and went into the next room. “I’m getting a Diet Pepsi. Do you want one?”

She followed her mother and looked at the machine. “Yeah, I guess so. I prefer Diet Coke.”