Free Murder of a Small-Town Honey by Denise Swanson Page A

you’re hungry. Supper’s almost ready.” To May, food equaled love, and no further words of affection needed to be spoken.
    Skye noted the time on the green-and-white-flowered wall clock—five minutes after six. “Isn’t it a little late for you guys to be eating dinner?”
    “Dad’s been up since five-thirty. He’s already cut Grandma Leofanti’s grass, put new seat covers on the pickup, and will be finishing our lawn in a few minutes. I dispatched from eleven to seven last night at the police station, then walked my three miles with Hester and Maggie, cleaned up the house, put up twelve quarts of corn, and slept this afternoon. You know we’re busy in the summer. We hardly have time to eat.”
    Skye knew better than to prolong this conversation. She’d had the same one too many times before. If it went any farther, her mom would start asking what Skye had accomplished that day—merely going to work would not have met with approval.
    Instead, Skye started to set the table. The plates, glasses, and flatware were in the same place they had been for as long as she could remember. She moved the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin holder from the counter to the table.
    “What are we having?” Skye asked, peering into the refrigerator.
    “Fried chicken, corn on the cob—it’s the last of the season—Grandma Denison’s rolls, mashed potatoes, and stewed tomatoes.”
    Skye grimaced. Stewed tomatoes, the soul food of Scumble River. “It’s hard to believe Grandma is still making rolls from scratch at eighty-one. I stopped over there last Friday after school and she was making pies for the Lions Club to sell at Chokeberry Days.”
    May stopped stirring long enough to give Skye a sharp look. “Hard work keeps us all going.”
    Seeing that Skye was holding a brown plastic tub, she added, “Make sure you put out the real butter for Dad. He won’t touch that Country Crock stuff I use for my cholesterol.” May paused and gave Skye another sharp look. “You better use the Country Crock too, since you’re still carrying around all that weight you gained last year.”
    Before Skye could respond, the back door slammed. Jed detoured into the tiny half bath off the utility room in order to wash his hands, and came out still carrying the towel. His jeans hung low, accommodating his belly, and his navy T-shirt was sweat-soaked and torn, evidence of his hard day of work.
    “Ma, I think this one’s had it. You can see right through it, and it won’t dry my hands no more.”
    Jed held the threadbare towel up to the light.
    “Maybe Vince could use it at his shop. I hate to just throw it away.” May walked over and examined the towel critically.
    “How many times do I have to tell you? We aren’t giving him a thing ’til he gets over this notion of being a hairdresser. No son of mine is going to do ladies’ hair for a living. I’ve got three hundred acres to farm, and my son won’t even help me.”
    May started to reply but seemed to think better of it and turned back to the stove to remove ears of sweet corn from boiling water. Jed stomped to his chair. Skye finished putting the food out and joined him at the table. May, carrying an enormous platter of chicken, was the last to sit.
    They ate silently. Skye brooded, upset because her father still hadn’t accepted her brother’s choice of occupation and her mother was still nagging her about her weight. It was no use trying to change their minds, and she was tired of arguing with them.
    Near the end of the meal, Skye’s thoughts turned to the murder. “So, Mom, any news at the police station about Mrs. Gumtree?”
    Nodding, May took a sip of her iced tea. “Yeah, but they’re all acting really secretive. I tried to pump Roy last night, and he just said the chief would have his hide if he blabbed anything.”
    “Maybe what they’re trying to hide is that they’re clueless. That new coroner didn’t seem too impressive.”
    “Sounds like you and Simon