Who Left that Body in the Rain? Read Free Page A

couldn’t afford them. At Gwen Ellen’s insistence, MacDonald Motors still sponsored an annual county orchestral concert, even though Skell had been out of high school six years. She also volunteered at the local hospital, working with oncology patients with a gentle compassion they found restful. A woman once told me her mother had literally refused to die until after Gwen Ellen’s weekly visit.
    Where Gwen Ellen was soft and gentle, Skye was a bundle of energy and enthusiasm for any project that attracted his attention. A tall, beefy man about to turn fifty, with thinning yellow hair and soft golden fuzz on his arms, he had a friendly pink face, laughing blue eyes, and a contagious laugh. When Skye bent and picked up a grumpy child, you could guarantee that child would be giggling within a minute. He served as an elder in our church and chaired the administrative committee, spending hours of his own time taking down the heating system to see why it wasn’t working properly, or climbing onto the roof to check for loose shingles.
    He also adored his wife and treated her like porcelain. He insisted that she have a full-time maid and often went home to eat lunch with her. He once fired a salesman who used profanity in her presence. He didn’t expect her to be brilliant or versed in international affairs. It was enough that she created a restful home, raised their children well, and was her own graceful self. Every woman in town was a bit jealous of Gwen Ellen, including me.
    The MacDonalds’ whole life had been a placid sea across which a beneficent sun had sprinkled diamonds—except Gwen Ellen worried constantly about their children. Just two weeks before, we had roomed together at a church women’s retreat, and in one of those late-night conversations that are the real reason most of us go to conferences anyway, her voice came sadly through the darkness between our two beds. “Laura’s never going to find a husband working in that office all day, and Skye is on Skell’s back about something all the time. No wonder Skell hates the motor company.”
    Fighting to stay awake, I ignored her longtime fears for Laura and focused on the issue dearer to her heart. “What would Skell like to do instead of work in the business?”
    Poor Skell, he’d hoped to become a concert cellist until college music professors informed him he had a mediocre talent, at best. After that, his dad told him to major in business so he’d know how to run the motor companies. Not until graduation did Skye discover that Skell had majored in Spanish instead. “Which he needs like a third head,” he’d told us angrily.
    “Skell doesn’t know what he wants yet,” Gwen Ellen had admitted drowsily through the darkness, “but he’ll find something. He just needs a little more time. He’s only twenty-three.” At twenty-three she’d been a mother and Skye had been working for her daddy. At twenty-three Joe Riddley and I were already learning to run his family business. I didn’t say any of that. Even good friends don’t criticize each other’s children, particularly the baby.
    My mind was on Skell when I pulled into MacDonald Motors’ parking lot that Friday afternoon. I wasn’t exactly questioning the ways of the Almighty, but it seemed to me a shame that Skell had been born to prosperous parents. Joe Riddley and I both thought he could benefit from a little adversity. Currently, he was little more than a playboy dabbling at running the family used-car lot, knowing his daddy and big sister would rescue him if he got into trouble.
    We went in the front door instead of directly to the service department, and saw Skye ushering a woman out of his office in the back left corner. As always, he wore his trademark “Skye blue” oxford cloth shirt, a rumpled khaki suit, and a tie in the navy-and-dark-green MacDonald plaid.
    I was more interested in his companion. “Isn’t that Marilee Muller?” I asked softly.
    Joe Riddley stopped drooling