Murder of a Sleeping Beauty

Table of Contents

 

 

“It’s no mystery why the first Scumble River novel was nominated for the prestigious Agatha Award. Denise Swanson knows small-town America, its secrets, and its self-delusions, and she writes as if she might have been hiding behind a tree when some of the bodies were being buried. A delightful new series.”

—Margaret Maron

 

 

“Skye is a quixotic blend of vulnerability and strength. . . . Denise Swanson is on her way to the top of the genre. . . . A magnificent tale written by a wonderful author.”

—Harriet Klausner

“Superbly written with emotion and everything a good mystery needs. . . . Shame on you if you miss anything by Denise Swanson.”

—
The Bookshelf

“Swanson’s writing itself is fresh and snappy. The dialogue and descriptions pop like a July firecracker. . . . Skye Denison [is] one of the most likable protagonists in softer-boiled mystery fiction today.
Murder of a Sweet Old Lady
is more fun than the Whirl-A-Gig at the county fair and tastier than a corn dog. The price of admission is well worth the trip.”

—Susan McBride,
The Charlotte Austin Review

“A charming, insightful debut mystery.”

—Carolyn Hart

“A delightful mystery that bounces along with gently wry humor and jaunty twists and turns.”

—Earlene Fowler, Edgar Award-winning author

“
Murder of a Small-Town Honey
is the start of a bright new series. Swanson captures the essence of small-town life in Scumble River, and Skye is a likable heroine.”

—
Romantic Times

“Denise Swanson has created a likable new heroine reminiscent of some of our favorite childhood detectives—with a little bit of an edge. . . . A fresh, delightful, and enjoyable first mystery.”

—
The Charlotte Austin Review

“Skye is smart, feisty, quick to action, and altogether lovable.”

—
I Love a Mystery

“A charming debut novel that rings with humor, buzzes with suspense, and engages with each page turned. . . . An impressive first novel worthy of praise.”

—
Kankakee Daily Journal
(IL)

“With a light touch, [Swanson’s] crafted a likable heroine in a wackily realistic small-town community with wonderful series potential. I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot more of Denise Swanson and Scumble River.”

—
Mystery Morgue

“A lighthearted, entertaining mystery.”

—
The Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

SIGNET

Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,
Victoria, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,
Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

First Printing, April 2002

Copyright © Denise Swanson Stybr, 2002

All rights reserved

eISBN : 978-1-101-11901-3

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

To my dad,
Ernest W. Swanson (1927-2000),
whose quiet goodness was
taken away from us much too soon.

Scumble River is not a real town. The characters and events portrayed in these pages are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to living persons is pure coincidence.

My sincere thanks to:

My aunt and uncle, Wilma and Al Votta, my cousins Darla and Ron Hutton, and the rest of my relatives and friends, who sustained my mother through her time of grief and helped ease her into widowhood.

My Windy City Chapter of RWA, a great group of writers.

My fellow Deadly Divas, especially Susan McBride, for all the companionship and advice. I could never have written this book while promoting my first one without you.

My Buds, for their unending support.

Luci Zahray, for her help with the pharmaceutical information.

My mother, Marie Swanson, who helped me continue despite our mutual grief.

And with love to my husband, Dave Stybr, whose devotion protects me from the slings and arrows.

 

 

 

 

A
s a school psychologist Skye Denison had dealt with many recalcitrant teens, but Justin Boward would be the death of her yet. He refused to talk. She was beginning to think his entire vocabulary consisted of yes, no, and the occasional grunt. Although she knew that adolescents tended to be like cats—neither react when you talk to them—his lack of response to her attempts to draw him out was starting to make her feel like a failure. A feeling she was way too familiar with already.

Two years ago, Skye had been forced to crawl back to Scumble River, Illinois, after finding herself fired, jilted, and broke. It had been hard enough to return to the rural Midwestern town she had escaped as a teenager, but the citizens’ long memories had made it worse. Hardly a week went by without someone reminding Skye of what she had declared twelve years ago in her valedictorian speech. Back then, the moment the words had left her mouth, she’d regretted saying that Scumble River was full of small-minded people with even smaller intellects. She had regretted it even more since she’d moved back home.

She snuck a peek at her watch as she pushed a stray chestnut curl under her headband. Twenty-five minutes before the Scumble River High School dismissal bell would ring. Once again, she attempted to make eye contact with the teen seated kitty-corner from her at the small table. He ducked his head and studied his chewed fingernails. Justin had not spoken three words in the previous fifteen minutes. Skye searched for some pithy comment.

Before she could come up with one, a student she vaguely recognized flung the door open and stumbled inside. The girl bent over, trying to catch her breath, and spoke between gasps. “Sleeping Beauty is dead.”

“What?” Was this teen-speak for: Run, the cops are here? Was Skye supposed to answer: The gray wolf howls at midnight?

Skye’s gaze raked the adolescent, who was still hunched over, hands on her knees, standing just past the office threshold. She was dressed in low-riding wide-legged denims and a hooded belly top. Her bleached two-tone hair fell to the middle of her back, and her navel was pierced.

After a quick appraisal, Skye decided that the girl probably hung with either the Rebels or the Skanks. Of Scumble River High’s five or six cliques, these were the two roughest. And unlike the teacher-pleasing Cheerleaders, Jocks, and Nerds, they did not volunteer information to adults. What was this girl up to?

The adolescent finally straightened and grabbed Skye by the wrist. “Something abhorrent has happened. You have to come right now.” She tugged at Skye’s arm. “Hurry!”

Skye found herself half-running, half-dragged down the long hall. Orange lockers went by in a blur, and the smell of that day’s lunch caught in her throat.

The teen skidded to a halt before the closed gym doors and pointed. “In there.”

“Who are you, and what are you talking about?”

“This is just FYI. I’m out of here.” The girl tried to push past Skye and head back down the corridor.

Skye grabbed the hood of her top. “Oh no, you don’t. Explain.”

“Hey, Cujo, back in your cage.” The teen twisted violently, trying to free herself, then turned an anger-filled stare on Skye, who met her gaze without blinking. Finally, the girl shrugged. “So, okay, I cut my eighth-period study hall, and I was hanging around here and there, waiting until my buds got out of school. I wanted a cigarette, and knew there was no PE last hour, so I went in the gym. It was dark, but I thought I saw someone on the stage, so I went closer. That’s when I saw her. The cheerleader playing Sleeping Beauty. She was laying there, dead.”

The teen tried again to free herself. Skye refused to let go. “Oh no, you don’t, you’re staying with me. Let’s check this out. Sleeping Beauty was probably just rehearsing, or taking a nap.” Under her breath she muttered, “Or maybe she was afraid of you.”