Skye shook her head. “Drunks.” Their actions rarely made any sense.
“She found Belle alone in the storage cottage,” Wally said, then added, “We have no idea what Belle was doing there at one in the morning.”
“I do,” Skye piped up. “She used to brag about needing only four hours of sleep a night.”
“That answers that question,” Wally said. “Anyway, Paige tried to get Belle to give the cash back.”
“And Belle refused,” Skye guessed.
“Yep. She told Paige she’d already spent it. So in a fit of anger, Paige whacked Belle on the head and knocked her out, which is when the zippers on her dress left abrasions on Belle’s face.”
“Why did Paige put Belle in the floral refrigerator?” Skye asked.
“She claims she thought the cool air would bring Belle back to consciousness, and she locked the door so Belle would be out of the way while she searched for the counterfeit money. She says she didn’t believe Belle could spend the cash so fast.”
“I think she meant to kill her.”
“Probably,” Wally agreed. “There was no indication that Belle’s cabin was searched.”
“I wonder why Paige ran when Martinez approached her.” Skye shook her head. “It just made her look guiltier.”
“Turns out she has really good hearing. She heard parts of what I was telling my officers about the zippers on her dress matching the abrasions on Belle’s face.” Wally’s tone was rueful. “Then, when Martinez pointed at her, she knew something was up.”
“What
I
don’t understand is why Paige was packing heat.” Skye checked her watch. She still had a few minutes to spare. “I mean, a gun in her garter—come on. It’s like something out of the Wild West.”
“Paige claims that having grown up on a ranch and living in L.A., she always carries the derringer for protection.”
“Protection from what?” Skye asked. “From what I gathered, they don’t exactly live on the bad side of town, and the most dangerous thing in Beverly Hills is a Rolls-Royce salesman.”
“Well, that’s her story, and now that she’s agreed to a plea bargain we won’t be getting any more answers.”
“Okay.” Skye got up and went back into the house. “I’ve got to go. See you at five thirty. Bye.”
She had just enough time to get ready for her next visitor. Last night after Wally had told her he’d be finished with the investigation today, she had phoned Simon and told him she’d give him her answer that afternoon. She’d wanted to tell both Simon and Wally her decision on the same day, before either heard anything through the grapevine.
Skye was putting a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses on the porch’s wicker table when Simon pulled into her driveway. He got out of the Lexus, waved at her, and ran up the stairs.
He tried to hug her, but she sidestepped him and sat down. “Take a seat.” She indicated the chair next to hers. “I wanted to talk to you before I give Wally my answer to his proposal tonight.”
“Oh?” Simon’s expression was a combination of hope and apprehension.
“Yes.” Skye chose her words carefully. “I’ve thought long and hard about what you said to me at dinner that night, and it’s not that I don’t still have feelings for you—”
“Wait,” Simon interrupted her. “I know giving me another chance is a risk, but happiness is the ultimate risk.”
“That’s just it, Simon.” Skye’s smile was sad. “When I look back at when we were together, I don’t remember a lot of happy times.”
“How can you say that?”
Skye winced at the raw hurt in his voice but knew she couldn’t soften the truth. “When I was with you, I constantly felt as if what I did wasn’t quite good enough. That my actions disappointed you. That you wanted to mold me and improve me.”
“That isn’t true. I just wanted you to be the best you could be.”
Skye noticed that new lines were etched around his mouth and eyes. “I was always waiting for you to get over being mad at me.” She took a deep breath, hating that she was hurting him. “I discovered something when I was with Wally. Life doesn’t have to be about waiting for the storm clouds to pass. It can be about embracing the rain showers and laughing while you splash through the puddles.”
“I’m so sorry.” Simon’s handsome face crumpled. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“I know.” Skye’s tone was kind. “In a way, it was good for me. I learned that being broken makes you stronger. Strength comes from the courage to heal and go on.
Simon leaned toward her and caressed her cheek with his thumb. “I truly am different now.”
His hazel eyes were mesmerizing, sending a ripple of awareness through her, but Skye forced herself to stand and move out of his reach. “For your sake, I hope that’s true.”
“It is.” Simon followed her and took her by the shoulders. “Please, just give me the time to prove it to you before you accept Boyd’s proposal.”
“I can’t,” Skye said. “It’s too late.”
“It can’t be too late.” Simon bent his head and touched his mouth to hers.
The feel of his lips caused a swirl of pleasure in the pit of her stomach; for a moment Skye responded, but a second later she pushed him away. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to marry Wally.”
“No, you aren’t.” Simon swept her into his arms and kissed her with a savage intensity before letting her go. “I’m not giving up until I see a wedding band on your finger.” As he walked away, he said over his shoulder, “And maybe not even then.”
All Skye wants is a piece of cake—and a
chance to wed her sweetheart, police chief
Wally Boyd—in the next Scumble River
Mystery, coming in April 2011.
The title remains a mystery—but we can
share the first chapter, which follows....
W
hen school psychologist Skye Denison saw an ad in the local newspaper announcing Tales and Treats’s grand opening that weekend, she was thrilled. For a voracious reader such as Skye, the luxury of having shelves and shelves of new, used, and rare books for sale just five minutes from home was nirvana. And the promise of specialty coffees, gourmet teas, and yummy pastries just added to her delight.
What she didn’t realize was that the store had already managed to ruffle the fur of several of Scumble River’s most vocal citizens. She should have known there’d be some kind of fuss about any new business that set up shop in her persnickety hometown.
Because, like cats, the inhabitants of the small tight-knit community weren’t partial to change, and they often showed their displeasure in spiteful and destructive ways. While the old-timers probably wouldn’t pee in the newcomers’ shoes, they very well might produce some obscure law that made their kind of footwear illegal.
Skye got her first inkling of unrest on Friday afternoon in the high school’s break room. Normally she didn’t frequent the lounge since the main form of entertainment there was gossip, and the confidential nature of her job meant she couldn’t contribute, which seriously ticked off many of the teachers.
To forestall the problem, Skye usually ate at her desk. But today was different. Today there was cake. And not just any kind of cake. It was Skye’s favorite: chocolate with vanilla butter cream icing.
It was a shame it was Pru Cormorant’s birthday cake, and that Pru was one of Skye’s least favorite colleagues, but Skye refused to let that deter her. Even when her conscience nagged at her, insisting it was wrong to eat cake honoring someone she didn’t like (and who didn’t like her), she promised the little voice a pink frosting rose to shut it up and continued on her quest for the delectable confection.
Since the lounge was crowded during the two lunch periods, and she didn’t want to get in the way of the staff, who had only twenty minutes to wolf down their food, Skye waited until after the ending bell before making her move. Her plan was to slip in, grab a piece of cake, and savor it back in her office while she started on all the special education paperwork connected with the beginning of the school year.
There it was, in the exact middle of three metal tables that ran end to end down the center of the room. Intent on the double-layered hunk of ecstasy, half of which was already gone, Skye pushed aside one of the orange molded-plastic chairs that lined both sides of the tables and reached for the knife lying on the crumb-filled serving platter.
Just before her fingers closed around the handle, the last voice in the universe she wanted to hear said, “Having a late lunch?”
Skye whirled around. Pru Cormorant sat on the sofa, her arms along the back, a derisive look on her face. How could Skye have missed seeing her there? She didn’t exactly blend into the surroundings. Pru’s sticklike arms and legs stuck out at awkward angles from her egg-shaped body, and her too-small head appeared in danger of tumbling off her neck if she made any sudden moves.
“It’s not late for me.” Reluctantly putting down the knife, Skye felt a guilty flush creeping up her neck. “I often see kids during the regular lunch hours.” Not that she had today, but Pru didn’t need to know that.
The English teacher sat back on the couch, which was covered in a prickly plaid fabric that Skye suspected could withstand a direct nuclear hit. “We don’t see you in here very often.”
“No.” Skye pasted a fake smile on her face. “I guess not.”
“Then you must have stopped by especially to wish me a happy birthday. How sweet of you.” Pru gave a mean little laugh. “I’m sure it wasn’t just for the cake.” She lasered a look at the two-karat diamond on Skye’s left hand. “Particularly since you’re almost certainly on a diet for your wedding.”
Skye’s engagement to Wally Boyd, the Scumble River police chief, had been the talk of the town since June, when she had accepted his proposal and begun wearing his ring. That her ex-boyfriend, Simon Reid, was doing everything in his power to change her mind about marrying the chief wasn’t helping to quell the chatter. Last week’s singing telegram delivered in the middle of the school parking lot by a white knight on horseback had really stirred up the rumor mill.
“I couldn’t let such a big day go by without wishing you the best,” Skye managed to say with false sincerity before putting her hands on her hips and staring at Pru. “But why would I be on a diet?”
Skye was well aware that ever since she’d decided she wasn’t willing to eat less than eight hundred calories a day in order to stay a size six, a lot of people thought she was too fat. But she didn’t allow veiled insults to go unchallenged. If someone had something to say about her weight, she made him or her come right out and say it.
“It’s just that most brides-to-be want to look extra good for their wedding pictures,” Pru said, backpedaling, then ruined it by adding, “and you have such a pretty face.”
“For someone who needs to lose a few pounds?” Skye wasn’t going to let the older woman off the hook that easily.
“Of course not.” Pru’s tone was completely insincere as she added, “I’m sorry if you took what I said the wrong way. I certainly never meant to offend you.”
“Hmm.” Skye held her tongue. “Anyway, since we haven’t even set a date yet, I’m not worried about the photos.”
In fact, unbeknownst to anyone beyond Skye’s immediate family, the wedding was on indefinite hold. Knowing how much it meant to Skye to be married in a Catholic church, Wally had agreed to apply for an annulment from his first wife, from whom he’d been divorced for several years. Father Burns said it might take twelve to fourteen months before the annulment came through, which left them in limbo.
Pru raised an overplucked eyebrow, but before she could probe further, Skye said, “Anyway, happy birthday.”
Pru nodded regally. “Thank you.”
Skye felt like a bunny caught nibbling a gardener’s prize-winning petunias, and she hadn’t even had a bite of the darn cake. In her heart, she knew she should go ahead, cut a slice, and eat it, but she just couldn’t. Not with Pru staring at her. It was one thing to stand up for herself when someone made a nasty remark, quite another to chow down in front of someone who obviously disapproved of her—especially when that someone was technically the cake’s owner.
While Skye tried to think of a graceful way to escape, her gaze flitted from the avocado-colored refrigerator against the back wall to the big black trash can next to the counter, then onto the sinkful of used coffee mugs. Finally she said, “Well, I should probably get back to work.”
“Don’t hurry away on my account.” Pru smiled meanly.
“Of course not.” Skye resigned herself to forfeiting her treat and searched for a good departure line. She glanced at the old library cart holding the huge brown microwave, circa 1980. “But I do have reports to write, so I’ll just heat up some water for a cup of tea and be on my way.”
The microwave’s stained exterior was gross, but using the appliance had several advantages. She could turn her back on Pru, thus steering clear of further conversation, and when the timer dinged, it would be a clear signal for her to leave.
But Pru ruined Skye’s scheme by saying, “Since it’s my planning period, and you can always write reports at home, I’d like to talk to you about something.”
“Oh.” Skye cringed inwardly. Pru had an ongoing vendetta against the student newspaper that Skye and her friend, school librarian Trixie Frayne, cosponsored. Many of the kids from Pru’s English class who had been on the debate team had switched to the
Scoop
’s staff because Skye and Trixie treated them fairly. The top story got the front page, not the one written by the teenager who kissed up to them the most. Pru, on the other hand, was known for letting her pets have all the best debate topics, and the students had finally rebelled.
“What’s up?” Skye asked.
“I’m concerned about that new bookstore in town.” Pru ran her fingers through her stringy dun-colored hair. “I hear it will be selling romance and science fiction.”
Skye bit her tongue to stop from blurting out,
And your point is ...?
Pru was the leader of the school’s old guard, and she already detested Skye. No need to further antagonize her. Instead she said, “Romance outsells all the other genres, and a lot of the most popular YA novels are sci-fi. If those books are readily available, it might encourage kids to read more.”