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Tugging at the crotch of her skintight jeans, her low-cut tank top exposing a large expanse of chalk-white cleavage, Glenda glared at Skye and said, “What are you implyin’? That we ain’t civic-minded?”

Skye made sure she was out of reach of Glenda’s claws and said, “Of course not. It’s just that few freshmen are interested in helping others.”

Earl looked from his wife to Skye and back. “Two seconds. I promise.”

Glenda scowled, nodded her agreement, then squawked at Earl, “Okay, Mister. Give Miz La-Di-Da Skye her precious permit, but if you ain’t in the Regal by the time the next song is over, come lovin’ time, I’m gonna learn from your mama’s mistakes and start using birth control.”

“Give me the permit now.” Skye held out her hand. She so didn’t want to hear about Earl and Glenda’s sex life.

“I gotta explain somethin’.” Earl shot Trixie a crafty look. “Right, Missus Frayne?”

“Dinner ain’t gonna cook itself, and possum takes a long time to bake or it’s tougher than your old leather work boot,” Glenda announced, and stomped away.

Skye was uncertain as to why Earl would need a work boot since as long as she’d known him, he’d never had a job, but she said, “We don’t want to keep you and Glenda from your dinner.”

“We got time.” Earl scooted farther into the library and carefully closed the door.

As he scouted the perimeter, Skye took a good look at the skinny little man dressed in camo sweatpants and a torn T-shirt. He almost looked like a ten-year-old boy, until you noticed the dense tattoos up and down his forearms and the basketball-shaped gut hanging over his trousers.

“What’s going on?” Skye glanced between Trixie and Earl. “What’s to explain?”

“You tell her, Missus Frayne.” Earl took off his dirty baseball cap, revealing muddy brown hair that formed a horseshoe around a bald spot the size of a cantaloupe. “You know what I need.”

Trixie shuffled her pink-and-black-high-top–clad feet, sucked in a lungful of air, and finally blurted out, “Earl graciously agreed to use some information he knew about the mayor to get the permit for the duck race.”

“So Earl blackmailed Dante?” Skye lasered the little man with a hard look. “What’s in it for you?”

Trixie glanced sideways at Skye and answered for Earl. “If I agreed to let him run a teeny-tiny little cornhole tournament as part of the event.”

“Cornhole?” Skye knew, or at least hoped, it wasn’t what it sounded like.

“Beanbag toss,” Trixie clarified. “It’s very popular right now.”

“And you want to have a competition?” Skye asked Earl. “Why?”

“’Cause it’ll be fun.” Earl widened his bloodshot eyes innocently.

“And?” Skye prompted. “I know you, Earl. Your idea of fun is scamming the city slickers, starting fights, and drinking beer.”

“Now, don’t be that way, Miz Skye,” he whined. “You got me all wrong.”

“I sincerely doubt it.” Skye knew Earl was up to something; she just couldn’t figure out what. “Describe this cornhole tournament.”

“It’s nothin’ special.” He scratched his head. “Just good clean fun for the whole family.”

“It’s up to you, Trixie.” Skye gave up. Getting the truth out of a Doozier was harder than squeezing the last bit of toothpaste from a tube and a lot more frustrating. “Your decision.”

“I have no choice.” Trixie held out her hand to Earl. “You’ve got a deal.”

Earl shook, gave Trixie the slip of paper, and put his cap back on. “I’ll just skedaddle before Glenda skins me alive.” Over his shoulder, he added, “I’ll see you ladies on Sunday.”

“Terrific.” Skye waited for him to leave, then said to her friend, “You do know that Earl’s up to something, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Trixie shrugged. “But I’m sure it’s nothing Team Skyxie can’t handle.”

Skye winced. She really needed to get off that team.

CHAPTER 14

F?—Are We Friends?

A
fter saying good-bye to Trixie, Skye got into her Bel Air and watched her friend’s Honda roar out of the school parking lot. In order to make ends meet when she and her husband had had some unexpected expenses, Trixie had sold her beloved Mustang. But the high-spirited librarian drove as if she were still behind the wheel of a hot rod and was competing for first place at the Route 66 Raceway.

As Skye put on her seat belt, she wondered how the investigation into Blair’s murder was going. Earlier that afternoon, when Wally had popped into her office, he’d been in too much of a hurry to bring her fully up to speed, but he had promised to fill her in when he got home.

It was good to know they’d found some fingerprints on the electrical panel, but she’d forgotten to ask if they’d talked to Thor Goodson. According to the police shows on television, when a woman was murdered, the husband or boyfriend was usually the killer.

Her stomach growled, and Skye checked the time. It was nearly five thirty.
Hmm!
Wally wasn’t going to be around for supper. Maybe she’d treat herself to a meal at the Feed Bag—Scumble River’s only sit-down restaurant. She never had made it to the supermarket or written a list for Dorothy, and she was too tired to go grocery shopping
right now. Besides, it had been quite a while since she’d been to the diner, and it would be nice to relax and read a book instead of going home and scrounging for something to eat.

A couple of minutes later, Skye pulled her car into one of the few remaining spots in the diner’s parking lot. Hopping out of the Chevy, Skye hurried inside. She hoped there would still be an available table.

It was well into supper rush hour at the Feed Bag—Scumble River was a rural community whose hardworking citizens ate at daybreak, noon, and five. No late-night, leisurely dining for them. By six o’clock they were in front of their televisions ready for the news, and a half hour later they were settled into their recliners watching
Wheel of Fortune
.

While she waited to be seated, Skye scanned the crowd. People who came to the Feed Bag felt as if they were part of an extended family. For the elderly, it was a comfort knowing that the staff would notice if they varied from their normal routine and that someone would check up on them if they didn’t show for their customary coffee, bowl of soup, or game of chess.

For the young families, it was reassuring that no one would frown if their kids were loud or messy. Not to mention that when the check arrived, they wouldn’t have to take out a second mortgage to pay it.

And for the singles, it was a safe place to go on a first date. Or a comfortable spot to meet up with other like-minded people looking for a love match.

Lost in her thoughts, Skye didn’t notice the Feed Bag’s owner, Tomi Jackson, until the tiny woman asked loudly, “You meeting the chief?”

“Unfortunately not.” Skye shook her head ruefully. “It’s just me tonight. Wally’s too busy with the murder investigation.” Thanks to the
Star
, there was no use being discreet. By now there wasn’t a man, woman, child—and maybe even pet—in Scumble River who hadn’t read and thoroughly discussed the case.

“Poor guy still needs to eat,” Tomi grumbled as she led Skye to a booth recently vacated by a couple who still stood close by, chatting with friends. It was near the wall of windows and a prime spot to observe everyone in the place. “When you’re ready to leave, I’ll fix up something to go for him and you can drop it off at the station.”

“That’s a great idea.” Skye threw her tote bag onto the bench seat and slid in beside it. “I’m sure he’d love your fried chicken basket.”

“Will do.” Tomi handed Skye a menu. “Do you need a couple of minutes?”

“Uh-huh. I want to check out the specials before I decide on an entrée.” Skye flipped open the laminated pages until she found the center insert. “In the meantime, I’ll have a caffeine-free Diet Coke with a slice of lime. I did a lot of talking today, and I’m dry as a bone.”

“Coming right up.” Toni stuck her pen into her platinum-blond beehive, a style that added several inches to her height. Ageless, she had been a part of Scumble River for as long as Skye could remember. “If you have a taste for something exotic, the meat loaf and mashed potatoes platter is fair to middling tonight. Cook’s been watching the Food Channel and got sort of daring. He added curry powder to his usual recipe and made it into little individual loaves.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Skye watched the owner as she tottered away in five-inch heels. How Tomi worked twelve-hour shifts wearing stilettos was beyond Skye. But the high-heeled shoes and the hairstyle were the older woman’s signature look, and she hadn’t changed either since the restaurant opened forty years ago.

A few seconds later, when Tomi returned with her soda, Skye—having deciding to skip the meat loaf since she had never been fond of hamburger in any form except a patty—asked for the smothered chicken plate. After the older woman left to convey the order to the cook, Skye sipped her drink and gazed around the restaurant.

Tomi had redecorated the place in the eighties, using lots of mauve and brass, and hadn’t touched it since then. More than twenty years of hard wear and tear were catching up with the interior. Rips in the vinyl seats had been repaired with duct tape, smudges on the walls had been dabbed with a color that didn’t quite match the original paint, and the ivy in the planters along the backs of the booths was long dead and replaced with plastic flowers that hadn’t been dusted in recent memory.

Still, the only ones who noticed the dated decor were the occasional tourists who wandered in on their drive down Route 66. And most of them soon learned that trash-talking a beloved Scumble River institution like the Feed Bag was not a good idea for their continued well-being. Vehicles had been known to develop sudden engine problems, flat tires, and mysterious scratches to their pristine paint jobs if their titleholders were too vocal or too persistent in their criticism of the restaurant.

Speaking of people making disparaging remarks, Skye dug through her tote bag for the mystery she was currently reading. A pompous author had just been killed after disparaging small towns in his speech to a book club, and she was anxious to see how the amateur sleuth would manage to insert herself into the investigation.

She knew firsthand that looking into a murder with no authority was tough, which was why she’d been happy to accept the position as the psychological consultant to the Scumble River Police. The pay was minuscule, but there were other compensations. Not the least of which was sleeping with the police chief.

A chapter and a half later, Skye’s visit to a fictional rural community in Missouri was interrupted when Tomi brought her a fresh soda and apologized. “I’m real sorry it’s taking so long. I have no idea how, but we ran out of potatoes. I sent a busboy over to Walt’s Supermarket to buy some more and he just got back. It’ll probably be another fifteen or twenty minutes. Is that okay?”

“Sure.” Skye tapped the cover of her book. “This will
keep me occupied, and there isn’t any place I have to be, so I’m in no hurry.”

“I sure wish everyone felt that way.” Tomi grimaced. “Around here, patience doesn’t seem to be a strong point for a lot of folks.”

As Tomi darted away to soothe her hungry customers, Skye smiled in sympathy. She could empathize with the business owner. Most of the people she worked with weren’t all that understanding of delays either, and everyone thought their problem should be her priority.

Before Skye could focus back on her mystery, the front door opened, and she glanced toward the entrance. It was now well past the accepted Scumble River suppertime, so she was curious as to who was eating so daringly late.

Somehow Skye wasn’t surprised when Emerald, aka Emmy, Jones glided inside the restaurant. Emmy, a beautiful woman in her late twenties or early thirties, had moved to town to teach dance classes in the studio her mother co-owned with Skye’s aunt Olive.

Emmy had been involved in some unspecified trouble while living in Las Vegas and had been sent to Scumble River for a fresh start, but she hadn’t quite adjusted from Sin City to small-town America. Dining early, dressing to blend in, and not rocking the boat were just a few of the customs to which she was still becoming accustomed.

Skye watched as Emmy spoke to Tomi, who shook her head. Frowning, Emmy scanned the room. When she spotted Skye, she waved, then pointed to herself and the empty bench at Skye’s table. Putting her hands together as if in prayer, she mouthed the word
please
.

So much for a quiet dinner reading her book. Skye forced a welcoming expression onto her face, nodded, and waved the shapely blonde over. Skye wasn’t at all sure how she felt about Emmy. She’d initially met her during a murder investigation that took place the week before Skye’s wedding, so bridal jitters could certainly have influenced the surge of jealousy that had zipped through her psyche when she’d first laid eyes on the woman.

Not only was Emmy stunning, but she was a member of the same gun club as Wally. He’d admitted that the dancer had hit on him when she’d originally moved to town, but he’d assured Skye that once Emmy was aware he was engaged, she’d treated him as no more than a friend. However, Skye still had her doubts.

She noticed that as the gorgeous performer sashayed toward her, she shamelessly flirted with every man she passed. Emmy playfully tapped their arms, patted their shoulders, or touched their cheeks, teasing one with, “I haven’t seen you in a while,” and another with, “We missed you at the last gun club competition.”

Wives and girlfriends scowled, but the men preened under her attention. Dressed in a high-waisted, formfitting red pencil skirt and a tight black blouse, she reminded Skye of a fifties pinup girl, which made Skye recall the burlesque routine that Emmy had performed at Wally’s and her bachelor/bachelorette party. It had been fairly innocent, but that seductive dance might be why Skye still had a lingering feeling of wariness toward the stunning woman.

“Hi, Emmy.” Skye pasted on a smile. “Care to join me for dinner?”

“That’s so sweet of you.” Emmy slid onto the bench opposite Skye. “Tomi said they’d had some sort of supply snafu so it would take a while for any tables to free up.” Emmy pouted. “And I’m starved.”