Murder of a Small-Town Honey (2 page)

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-fiancé 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. Iona 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 storytelling 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 Chokeberry 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.

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 indicated. “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?”