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

didn’t hit it off,” Jed said as he slathered butter on his third roll.
    “He seems a little arrogant and conceited.” Skye studied her plate and carefully speared a tiny bit of stewed tomato.
    May tilted her head. “Seems to me that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
    Skye pushed back her plate. “What? Are you saying you think I’m arrogant and conceited?”
    “I wouldn’t say arrogant and conceited exactly.” May jumped up and brought over strawberry shortcake, dishing it out without asking who wanted some. Refusing food was not an option in May’s kitchen. It never seemed to occur to May that she sent mixed messages—lose weight, but be sure to clear your plate first.
    Skye’s mother continued, “But you are a little snobbish and sort of vain. I mean, look at what you said in your valedictorian speech at school.”
    Skye pushed her dessert plate away. One mistake, twelve years ago, and not even her own mother ever let her forget. “You just don’t understand the difference between self-esteem and egotism,” Skye said.
    “Maybe not.” May finished her cake and began to collect the dirty dishes. “But I do know what the Bible says: ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.’”
    No one spoke as the two women finished clearing the table.
    Finally Jed got up and headed toward the back door. “So how’s the car running?”
    Skye faked a smile. “Fine. It never breaks down, that’s for sure.”
    “That car will last forever if you take care of it the right way. If you’re going to be here a while, how about I change the oil?”
    Skye hid her true feelings about the car. “That would be great, Dad. I’m going to help Mom with the dishes, so you’ll have plenty of time.” She went to the sink and shook out the dishcloth. “If you get a chance, take a look and see if you can figure out why the seat belt on the passenger side won’t unfasten.”
    “Will do. I’ll probably need to order some parts,” Jed said as he left for the garage.
    May took the dishcloth out of Skye’s hands and replaced it with a towel. “Why don’t you talk to Vince? Maybe if he helped in the field, your dad could forget the other.” Obviously May had decided the subject of Skye’s pride was closed.
    Skye carefully dried the dish she was holding and tried to form an acceptable answer. Finally she equivocated, “Remember, I’m Vince’s little sister. I’d be the last one he’d go to for advice.”
    “He’d listen to you if you explained about Dad.” May rinsed the soap off the plate Skye was about to dry.
    “Vince has had the shop for almost ten years now. He has real talent. He’s happy doing what he’s doing. He hated farming. He hated the hours, the uncertainty, and the dirt. It’s time for Dad to give it up.”
    May stopped scrubbing the big black cast-iron frying pan that Skye’s grandmother had also used to fry chicken when May was a little girl. “Maybe if you married someone who would help your dad in the fields . . .”
    “Mom, that isn’t going to happen either. You and Dad have already tried to fix me up with every guy whose father owns land anywhere near ours.” She twirled a lock of her hair. “Let’s see, there were the two pig farmers to the south, the four Piket brothers to the west, Zeke Zadock to the north, and the triplets to the east. Presumably at least some of those eligible bachelors are married by now.”
    “What did we do wrong? It’s not natural that neither of my children is married. What about our marriage scared you so much?”
    Skye muttered, “You don’t really want to know. Maybe I should tell you just for spite.”
    Her mother was a social butterfly, wanting to be out doing something or going somewhere all the time. Her dad, on the other hand, was a homebody, content to putter in his yard and garage. It seemed to Skye that her parents rarely agreed on anything.
    Withdrawing her head and upper torso from the cupboard, where she’d