Just as she was considering telling Wally she had a headache and wanted to leave, Simon saw them.
He rose unsteadily and staggered toward them. “Well, if it isn’t Dudley Do-Right.”
“Reid.” Wally’s expression was glacial.
“I hope you’re happy.” Simon poked Wally in the chest. “Xavier quit.”
Skye bit her lip. That wasn’t good. Xavier needed a steady income. On the other hand, burying the dead was a recession-proof industry, and he’d have no problem finding a job at any of the neighboring funeral homes.
Simon interrupted her thoughts by adding, “He said he couldn’t face me every day after lying to me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Wally’s tone was neutral. “Maybe once things settle down, you can change his mind.”
“Like you give a shit,” Simon said in a harsh, raw voice. “You want to see me lose everyone I care about.”
Wally’s jaw tightened. “I couldn’t care less one way or the other.”
“I’m not giving up on Skye.” Simon straightened and seemed to sober up all of a sudden. “I hear you’re having trouble getting your annulment, Boyd.” His smile was predatory. “Just remember, it isn’t over until the fat lady sings.”
“If that’s the case, Reid”—Wally arched a brow—“she’s clearing her throat right now, because I’ve located Darleen.”
When Scumble River is struck with
honky-tonk fever, Skye Denison
wonders if the whole town
will go up in flames.
Read on for a sneak preview of the next
Scumble River Mystery,MURDER OF A CREPED SUZETTEComing from Obsidian in
October 2011.
Skye Denison had to admit that Flint James was hot. Neither the engagement ring on her finger nor her utter aversion to sports of any kind altered the fact that the pro quarterback turned country singer looked like a Greek statue—if statues wore cowboy hats, had smoky whiskey-colored eyes, and sported really good tans.
Flint leaned on the side railing of Scumble River Park’s newly constructed grandstand, gazing at the early evening sky. The rising star appeared unconcerned about whatever was transpiring at the back of the stage, where a cluster of guys in jeans, T-shirts, and baseball caps surrounded a man in an expensive Western-style suit.
To Skye, the group of men looked like the featured rodents in a whack-a-mole game—first one head would pop up, scan the audience, and duck back down, then another and another, before starting the process all over again. It was obvious that something was wrong, but what? While the others appeared merely irritated, Mr. Suit looked apoplectic.
According to the liberally distributed flyers, the program was supposed to start at six thirty. It was already a quarter to seven, and although the pack was ablaze with lights, and there were amplifiers scattered around the stage’s perimeter, nothing was happening.
Perhaps the out-of-towners didn’t understand how much the good citizens of Scumble River valued punctuality, but Skye knew if something didn’t happen soon, people would begin to leave. Small-town Illinoisans considered fifteen minutes early as on time, the stated hour as barely acceptable, and anything afterward as intolerably late.
The only thing that might persuade everyone to hang around was the complimentary refreshments. An open bar tended to keep most Scumble Riverites happy for quite a while.
Skye fanned herself with the old grocery list she had found in the pocket of her khaki capris and watched for Wally Boyd. Wally was her fiancé, but tonight he was on duty as the chief of police.
Usually he wouldn’t be working on a Saturday night, but the entire Scumble River police force was patrolling this event—six full-time officers and two part-timers. An affair like this needed all the crowd control available. It wasn’t often that a celebrity like Flint James performed anywhere near Scumble River, let alone in a free concert.
Which brought up a good question. Why? Why would Flint James agree to come to the middle of nowhere and sing, especially without charging for tickets?
As Skye slapped at a gnat buzzing around her ear, she caught sight of her uncle, the mayor. Dante Leofanti was seated front and center on something resembling a red canvas throne. It had a canopy, a table attached to the arm, and even a footrest. His wife, Olive, sat by his side in a smaller version of the same elaborate chair, although hers was baby blue.
Skye narrowed her eyes. Nothing happened in his town without the mayor’s knowledge and permission. Dante had to have approved the use of the park, the permit to build the grandstand, and the authorization to serve alcohol. He would certainly know why Flint James was singing here, but did Skye care enough to go over there and ask him? No. Dante treated information like a commodity, and she didn’t want to be in his debt.
More to the point, she really didn’t need to know. There was an extremely fine line between concerned and nosy. Skye usually erred on the wrong side of that line, but not this time. She had learned her lesson and was minding her own business for once.
Skye wasn’t on duty as either the town’s school psychologist or psychological consultant to the police department. She was just at the concert to hear some good music and have fun with her friends. Whatever was going on was not her problem.
Speaking of friends, where was Trixie? Skye’s BFF, Trixie Frayne, and Trixie’s husband, Owen, were supposed to have shown up half an hour ago. Skye checked her cell phone. It was on—she often forgot to power it up—and she didn’t have any messages so her friend hadn’t tried to reach her.
Skye attempted to call Trixie, but got her voice mail. After leaving a message asking Trixie and Owen to meet her by the refreshment stand, Skye threaded her way through the crowd, looking for her friends.
While she walked, Skye dug through her purse for a barrette, desperate to get her humidity-frizzed chestnut curls out of her face. The freshly ironed sleeveless white blouse she had put on just before leaving home was now wrinkled and limp, and it clung to her ample curves like a damp shower curtain. Autumn had begun three weeks ago, but the unusually high temperature made it feel like it was still the dog days of summer.
Skye considered giving up on Trixie and Owen and just going home. She could relax in the air-conditioning, watch a movie, and spend some quality time with her cat. Although she liked country music, without both Wally and her friends, the concert wouldn’t be much fun.
Besides, she wasn’t fond of outdoor events unless the weather was perfect. A circumstance rarely found in the Midwest, where it was often necessary to switch from the heat to the AC and vice versa on the same day.
Still, when you lived in the small town where you grew up, worked in public education, and were engaged to the police chief, it was a good idea to show your face at social gatherings. And Skye had finally admitted that she did want to be a part of the community. It had taken her a while, but after five years, she recognized that moving back to Scumble River, despite its rigid sense of right and wrong, had been a good decision.
Not that she’d had much choice at the time since she’d lost her job, maxed out her credit cards, and been jilted. But now, even though she’d saved a little money, could count on a decent job reference, and had a brand-new fiancé, given the choice, she would stay in her hometown for the rest of her life. Too bad this evening was beginning to feel like it was going to last at least that long.
Skye had reached the edge of the lawn-chair- and blanket-seated audience without spotting her friends. Where in the heck were they? She ground her teeth. Shoot! Not only was there no sign of Trixie and Owen, but now she needed to find a bathroom—fast.