Excerpt of Dead End by Judith Skillings

Chapter One

"We having an open house? Or is he selling tickets to the policemen's ball?"

Rebecca forced herself to look up. Frank Lewes's rangy body blocked the sun, his face a dark void of shadow. She'd heard his Corolla drive in, the wrenching squawk of the driver's-side door, the rhythmic shuffle of his boots on the tarmac as he approached. She'd imagined his eyes flitting from the sheriff's patrol car to the open front door to his boss huddled on the cement stoop, belatedly guarding the shop. As ineffectual as the thrasher rustling in the dead leaves beneath the azalea.

She squinted at him. "We already gave."

"Uh-huh. That's what I thought." Frank peered over her head into the foyer. "You gonna tell me what's going on?"

"Frank -- "

"Or make me guess? Val?"

"No, Frank. It's -- "

"Paulie?"

"It's none of us. But it's bad."

"No shit." Frank glared.

Rebecca held out her hand. Her chief mechanic pulled her to standing with as little effort as if she were still a spoiled kid hanging around the shop for the summer. Frank had run the shop for her uncle and now did for her. On the step, she was level with him. Close enough to smell Head & Shoulders shampoo tinged with a dose of fear -- Frank's Pavlovian response to the police.

He gripped her hand as if he could squeeze the news out of her. She didn't flinch. His intimidation was pure bluff. Always had been, like his silences. Frank claimed to have lost the knack of small talk in the state pen. Maybe. Or maybe he preferred to listen. Soak up people's chatter like a sponge attacking spilled milk. Wring it out late at night when he had time to consider more than just the words.

Rebecca's words were strained but unambiguous.

"Graham Stuck was murdered. Then stuffed into our glass beader."

Frank whistled. He dropped her hand, wiped his on the leg of his coveralls as he stepped back, leaving her in charge. "Mighty inconsiderate. Hope he didn't gum up the machine."

Rebecca and Frank watched in silence as Harry Tolland wheeled the remains of Graham Stuck through the doorway of Vintage & Classics into the blinding sunshine. Past retirement, Harry should have put away his surgical tools. He'd given up private practice, stepped down to assistant medical examiner for the county, but he couldn't open his fist and let go of the string. Which was okay with most everyone. With Harry, you knew which way the wind was blowing. He was an archetypal grandfather, if your grandfather brandished a scalpel -- as sensitive to the anguish of the living as he was invasive to the secrets of the dead.

Harry maneuvered the stretcher outside. The gurney bounced off the doorframe. No one much cared, since the corpse wasn't complaining. Harry frowned, mumbled to the body. "Muddier than tobacco fields soaked by spring rains." The front wheels bumped down off the step. Frank caught the back end and eased it onto the tarmac. Harry nodded his thanks. "Too damn muddy by half."

Rebecca tore a ragged thumbnail off with her teeth. If that was the aging coroner's assessment of Stuck's unnatural death, she was inclined to agree. Who kills a classic car mechanic -- even a mediocre one who overcharged his customers? Why was Stuck in her shop instead of his own? Why put his body in the glass beader? Where were his clothes? Nothing made sense.

Sheriff Bradley Zimmer wasn't troubled by such philosophical questions. The town's second-term sheriff was still trying to adjust the uniform over his middle- aged spread. He corralled everyone in the lunchroom. Like most areas of the shop, the lunchroom was clean and functional. Vanilla walls, beige Armstrong tile floor, window set high in the front wall. Access to both the office and the machine shop. Butcherblock counter ran along a side wall holding a counter refrigerator, sink, microwave and Paulie's contribution: two-burner Bunn coffeemaker. The six-foot-long cafeteria table was white -- not the most practical color for a shop -- but Uncle Walt had figured that way you could see when it needed to be cleaned. In the corner, a water cooler belched as an air bubble erupted.

Rebecca crossed her right leg over the left, tucked her ankle behind to keep it from swinging. She clutched a mug of Paulie's coffee du jour with both hands. Mondays it was equal parts French Nut and Zanzibar Roast. The sheriff hadn't touched his, which upset Paulie, who hovered offering refills. Frank sat at the far end imitating a sphinx, avoiding eye contact. Maurice sprawled on the table, playing centerpiece. Presumably, Juanita was at Flo's Café waiting tables. Val was more than three hours late. The missing teen had been there eighteen months and was still on probation from a burglary conviction. Being late was not a good move.

Zimmer lurched over the table in Rebecca's direction. "You have no idea what Stuck was doing in your shop?"

"No, Sheriff. I didn't know twenty minutes ago and I still don't." Rebecca sighed. Moe stretched his legs, shoving Zimmer's notepad onto the floor. "He shouldn't have been in the shop, alive or dead."

"You didn't get along?"

"Why would we?"

"You were enemies?"

"We were business competitors. Maybe the shops were close, geographically, but we weren't. Why would we want him hanging around?" Rebecca shook her head, ducked beneath the table to retrieve the notepad. It was too odd thinking of herself as a business rival of a vintage car mechanic, even after six months running the place. Odd to think of herself at all in her present guise. At thirty-seven, she was no longer a reporter. No longer enmeshed in the drama of the DC scene. No grab-and-gab lunches at High Noon, swapping leads with Hayes. No evenings fishing the olives from designer martinis with those politically connected, trying to absorb more leads than you gave away. No trips out of town on the expense account. No need for a laptop, tape recorder, briefcase ...