Murder of a Small-Town Honey (30 page)

After Skye completed her call, Neva came over and sat on the edge of the desk. “Be prepared. Hap is not going to take this peacefully.”

Skye reached into her pocket and retrieved the Kit Kat bar. Its smooth chocolate surface felt soothing under her fingertips. She broke it down the middle and handed Neva half. Both women took bites. The afternoon was shaping up to be as bad as the morning had been.

 

The three o’clock sun beat down hotly as Skye walked toward the parking lot, thinking about buying a new car. She had to make a decision. She’d been borrowing her grandmother’s for nine months and that wasn’t right, even if Antonia couldn’t use it anymore. Skye’s Impala had been totaled last fall. Luckily, she had walked away without a scratch.

A voice interrupted her thoughts: “Skye! Skye Denison, is that you?”

Skye looked to the left and spotted a woman hurrying across the grassy area that separated the senior from the junior high school.
Oh, no, it’s someone else I should remember but don’t.
She hated hurting people’s feelings by admitting she didn’t recognize them. It was tough to be back in her hometown after having been gone for twelve years.

As the woman got closer, the breeze ruffled her short brown hair from its smooth caplike style and played with the hem of her simple gray knit dress. Everything about her seemed familiar, but it was her expression that finally struck a spark of recognition in Skye. Her open features bore a look of good humor and high spirits.

“Oh my God, Trixie Bensen! What are you doing in Scumble River?” Skye grabbed her old friend and gave her a big hug. Trixie and her family had moved away during the girls’ sophomore year.

Hugging Skye back, Trixie said, “My husband bought the old Cherry farm a few months ago. I’m interviewing for a job at the high school.” She took both of Skye’s hands and stepped back to look at her. “How about you? Don’t tell me you live in town. You vowed never to settle down here.”

By unspoken agreement the women moved to a concrete bench along the sidewalk.

Skye sat with one leg tucked beneath her and said, “Well, I did manage to escape for quite a while. I went to the University of Illinois, then spent several years in Dominica serving in the Peace Corps. After that I attended graduate school and did my internship in Louisiana, and spent a year working in New Orleans.”

“Wow! So how did you get back here?”

“Oh, last year I had a little trouble with my supervisor and ended up breaking up with my fiancé, so I needed a place to recoup. I’ll look for another job in a year or so, once I get a good evaluation.”

Trixie patted her hand. “I’m so sorry for all the bad stuff.” She grinned. “But this is too cool. We’re together again.”

“Tell me what happened since you moved. Why didn’t you write me back?” Skye frowned, remembering how hurt she had been when she never received a reply to her letters.

“When we moved to Rockford, my parents had a misguided idea that I would adjust better if I didn’t have any reminders of Scumble River, so they never gave me any mail. They never told me until I was getting ready to move back here.”

“Well, that explains a lot.”

Trixie screwed up her face and shook her head. “Parents.”

“So tell me the rest.”

“Okay, it’s not very exciting. I finished high school in Rockford. Went to Illinois State for my B.A. and then got my master’s in library science from the University of Illinois. I married Owen Frayne right out of college and we’ve been renting a farm in Sterling until we could save enough to buy our own. And voilà, here we are.” Trixie beamed.

“You might be just in time. A lot of farmland is being purchased by developers who are gambling that Scumble River will become the next satellite suburb of Chicago.”

“Boy, I’ll bet people around here are hot on that subject.”

“Lots of fighting going on between neighbors, and even between fathers and sons.”

Trixie frowned. “That’s a shame. Is your family thinking of selling?”

“No. Grandma Leofanti would rather die than sell an inch of her land.”

“That’s good. Does she still make those fantastic apple slices?”

A look of sadness crossed Skye’s face. “No, I’m afraid not. She’s still strong as an ox physically, but her mind’s not too good for recent stuff, and she forgets to take care of herself sometimes. Around Christmas the family hired someone to live in and make sure she’s okay.”

“That’s too bad. She was such a fun person. So outspoken. And a real feminist. She always seemed ahead of her time. More modern than your aunts.” Trixie was silent for a moment. “Did you have trouble finding someone to take care of her? We sure did when Owen’s mother was sick.”

Skye nodded. “Yeah, we finally had to hire someone from an agency in Chicago. They supply women fresh off the boat from Poland. Mrs. Jankowski, the one we have now, seems okay, but she speaks very little English and that can’t be good for Grandma. Plus, she doesn’t drive, so she and Grandma are both stuck on the farm unless someone picks them up.”

“It makes you scared to get old. Maybe that’s why people stop going to visit the elderly. They see their own future and can’t stand it.” Trixie shuddered.

“At first I sort of felt that way,” Skye admitted. “But then Grandma started telling me the family history. She’d never talk about the past before, so I’m finding out a lot about my family. We’re up to her first year of marriage. Grandpa was not her only fiancé. The first guy got killed in an auto accident. Sounds to me like she married Grandpa on the rebound. I stop by almost every day after school. Actually, that’s where I’m heading when I leave here.”

Trixie jumped up. “You’d better get going then. She’ll be looking for you.” She rummaged in her purse, finally locating a scrap of paper and stubby pencil. “Here, write your number down.”

After Skye complied, Trixie tore the slip in two and wrote her number on the other piece. They hugged and Trixie scurried back the way she had come.

Skye climbed into her borrowed car and turned the air conditioner on max. After pulling her hair into a ponytail, she peeled off her pantyhose, slid on a pair of blue chambray shorts, and removed her skirt.

The fuel gauge showed less than a quarter of a tank. She’d better stop for gas on her way back from seeing Grandma. Her visit with Trixie had put her behind schedule and she didn’t want to arrive just as her grandmother was sitting down to eat.

Grandma Leofanti lived halfway between Scumble River and the neighboring town of Brooklyn. Skye’s Uncle Dante, her parents, and her Aunt Mona all lived along the same road—separated only by acres of corn and beans. They could all see one another’s houses when the crops weren’t mature.

Heading north, then turning east, she spotted the remains of the original Leofanti farmhouse, which had been leveled in the tornado of 1921. The only thing left was the building’s chimney, which rose out of the field like the stack of a ship sailing on a sea of corn. A few minutes later she passed her relatives’ farms. No one was in the front yards and all the garage doors were closed.

As Skye pulled into her grandmother’s driveway, she noticed a large group of hawks circling the isolated farmhouse, braiding the breeze with their feathered wings. She frowned. That was weird. She didn’t remember ever seeing more than a single hawk at a time before. A shiver ran down her spine and she was glad to emerge from the car’s icy interior into the heat of the June afternoon.

The white clapboard house was situated about a quarter of a mile back from the road, surrounded on three sides by fields. It was small by modern standards and Skye often wondered how her mother, two younger sisters, and a brother had managed to live there without killing each other.

She parked in her usual spot beside the garage, and as she crossed the concrete apron, her grandmother’s cat, Bingo, paced anxiously near the front door of the house. Bingo was a beautiful blue-cream tabby.

Skye bent and scooped him into her arms. “What are you doing here? You know you aren’t allowed outside. Did you get away from Mrs. Jankowski?”

Bingo blinked his golden eyes and yawned. Hoisting the cat up to her shoulder with her left hand, Skye grabbed the knob and pulled with her right, only to stumble backward when the door wouldn’t open. That was odd. First Bingo was outside, and now the door was locked. Grandma hadn’t locked her doors since she’d stopped leaving the house.

The key was kept on a nail hanging on a nearby window frame. Skye used it to open the door and replaced it before going inside. The entryway was painted a dark green, with worn gray linoleum. Its dankness reminded Skye of a cave. Straight ahead, five stairs led up to the rest of the house.

She called out as she climbed the steps into the kitchen, “Mrs. Jankowski, it’s Skye.”

There was no answer. The kitchen light was off and the stove empty. She set Bingo down. He immediately ran to his water bowl and hunched down for a long drink.

What in the heck was going on? Her grandmother liked to eat at four and it was already ten to. And where was Mrs. Jankowski?

The dining room was empty and the door to the bathroom was open, so she could see that no one was inside. Skye peeked into Mrs. Jankowski’s room. The bed was made and the dresser top was clear.

“Yoo hoo, anyone here?” Skye’s voice quavered. Had something happened to her grandmother? The only reason she left the house was to go to the doctor. Where was Mrs. Jankowski?

The living room was empty. Grandma’s chair was placed against the wall, squared with the empty eye of the television set. Beside it, her knitting bag was partially open with needles sticking out the top. Pink, blue, and yellow yarn seeped over the edges, indicating that Grandma was working on another baby afghan.

Taking a deep breath, Skye forced herself to walk toward her grandmother’s bedroom. Other than the screened front porch, it was the only place she hadn’t looked.

The door was closed. She knocked. “Grandma, are you okay? It’s Skye.”

No answer. The knob turned easily under her hand, but the door squeaked loudly as she pushed it open. At first she couldn’t see because the blinds were drawn and the room was completely dark. Skye fumbled for the light switch.

Grandma Leofanti lay unmoving in the bed, the white chenille spread pulled over her face. The only thing visible was a cloud of snow white curls. At five feet tall and ninety pounds, she didn’t take up much space on the double bed.

“Grandma!” Frightened, Skye stepped closer and pulled the counterpane down to her grandmother’s chest. Who had put the cover over her head? Antonia Leofanti was claustrophobic and couldn’t abide anything covering her face. She wouldn’t even wear a dress that had to be put on over her head.

Skye’s sense of fear grew. Putting her hand on the old woman’s shoulder, she gently shook her.

Antonia was unresponsive. Skye felt for a pulse, and when she couldn’t feel one, laid her head on her grandmother’s chest, searching for a heartbeat. Nothing. Throwing the bedclothes all the way back she started CPR, ignoring the fact that her grandmother’s body felt cold and stiff.

She paused. The CPR wasn’t having any effect, but she bent to try again.
The doctor just told us that there was nothing wrong with you physically, that you could live to a hundred. Come on, he gave you twenty more years.

There still was no response and drawing a ragged breath, Skye conceded defeat. She sat on the floor, laid her head on the bed, and sobbed.