Murder of a Smart Cookie: A Scumble River Mystery (13 page)

“People are trampling all over my crime scene.”

Skye offered, “Sheriff, you’ve closed down the farm stand, and it’s pretty isolated. The only tiling near it is the parking area across the street. The petting zoo and the guy selling goat cheese are half a mile down the road.”

“Fine.” Buck shook his head. “But you got a fox running around in a whole henhouse full of chickens. You’ll feel mighty bad when he kills the next one.”

Skye bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t laugh. The sheriff was certainly sure this was fowl play. “Why are you so certain there’ll be a next one?”

The sheriff frowned. “I’m not. But I don’t want to take the chance.” He looked at her suspiciously. “Why do you think there won’t be?”

“It seems like a crime of passion to me. Someone kills her in the heat of an argument, then stuffs her in the nearest available hidey-hole.” For a moment Alma Griggs’s face flashed into Skye’s mind—she certainly had been mad at Cookie—but Skye pushed that thought aside. No way would such a nice old lady kill someone.

Buck harrumphed and turned back to Dante. “It’s on your head if someone else gets hurt.”

Dante stared the sheriff down. “No. It will be my fault if Scumble River loses all the money it’s invested in the Route 66 Yard Sale. It will be your fault if you don’t find Cookie Caldwell’s murderer and he kills again.”

Skye gave her uncle a thumbs-up. Dante kept surprising her.

Buck’s face turned so red that Skye almost expected steam to come out of his ears like on a cartoon. He spun on his heel and stomped out the
door, saying over his shoulder, “In that case, I’d better take a good look at your kin, since the victim was found at your stand, by your relatives.”

Skye shot Dante an inquiring look. Their family didn’t have anything to hide, did they? He shrugged. Who knew?

*   *   *

After the sheriff left, Dante ordered Skye to field calls from the media about Cookie’s death. The phone stopped ringing by noon, so he allowed her to take her afternoon shift at the Lemonade ShakeUp booth, as planned. The stream of people ordering drinks was endless—if she never saw another lemon it would be too soon.

While working the lemonade stand, Skye had received a message about a family meeting being held at her folks’ house at four. When she pulled into their driveway a few minutes past the hour, her parents’ garage was already full of her aunts, uncles, and cousins, all engrossed in several animated conversations. The men clutched cans of beer, and the women sipped iced tea from clear plastic cups.

An ancient black fan rotated on the top of her father’s tool bench, trying unsuccessfully to cool the overheated building. A hot breeze fluttered the striped curtains on the small windows, and the yellow walls glared brightly. An old refrigerator hummed in a corner next to a shiny white freezer, and Jed’s collection of toy tractors festooned the shelves that ran along three of the four walls.

Skye found an empty lawn chair and sat, half listening to her relatives argue, too tired to join any of the discussions. Not surprisingly, her parents were on opposite sides. Her brow puckered. She really had to do something about that soon.

Her brother, Vince, dropped into the seat beside her. “What do you think? Should we forget it or find another location to set up the stand?”

“Well, the whole family did put in a lot of work gathering the stuff from basements and attics to sell, not to mention growing and canning the extra produce.”

“True. But isn’t it a little disrespectful to go on as if nothing has happened?”

“Maybe, but none of us really knew Cookie.” Skye paused to listen to her mother and father bicker. “That reminds me, since your hair salon is gossip central, did you hear who in town
was
close to Cookie?”

“Nobody.” Vince shrugged. “She got her hair done at my shop, but she never talked about anything personal—mostly just her tennis game and her business.”

“And no one else talked
about
her?”

“No.” Vince screwed up his face in thought. “It was almost as if she was a ghost or something. The people in town just sort of ignored her.”

“How odd.” Skye considered how hard it was to fly under the radar in Scumble River. She had tried—and failed almost immediately. It took a lot of effort not to be noticed. Had Cookie been hiding something?

Vince and Skye sat in companionable silence while their families argued toward a verdict. They knew none of their uncles or aunts would listen to them. No one under the age of fifty got a vote.

It was finally agreed that they would reopen the farm stand in front of the bowling alley. Bunny had called earlier and offered them that space, since it was currently not being used. May pouted, not wanting to take anything from that “horrible woman,” but the decision had been made.

The men hopped into pickups, intent on building a new stand while it was still light, since the sheriff had cordoned off the old one. Luckily, most of the items that they were selling had not been left at the old stand overnight, so only a few of the really large pieces were now off-limits.

The women retreated to the kitchen to begin baking for the next day’s sale. Skye’s offer to help was rejected. Her reputation for burnt cookies, fallen cakes, and lead-crusted pies had preceded her.

Skye felt insulted, but also relieved to be dismissed. It was already past six, and the concert in the park was supposed to start at seven. She needed to get over there and make sure that the night’s entertainment, a rock gospel group called the Godly Crüe, was ready to go.

Scumble River Park was a small finger of land that extended into the river for about half a mile. It was accessible by vehicle only from Maryland Street, and that entry point had been shut down because of the yard sale. That left the footbridge that extended from the apex of the Up A Lazy River Motor Court parking lot as the only real entrance, although a few people chose to arrive by boat.

Skye threaded her way through the meandering crowd until she reached the bandstand, located at the farthest tip of land, and she was reassured to see amplifiers scattered around the perimeter and people settling into lawn chairs and spreading blankets.

Skye spotted the musical group’s manager and lead singer, Will Murphy, an angelic-looking young man in his late twenties. “Will, good to see you again. Is everything set for your show?”

“I believe so, Sister Skye.” The singer ran his fingers through his curly blond hair. “We were real sorry to hear about that lady being killed. We weren’t sure if we should perform or not.”

“Sorry. I should have contacted you and let you know that the mayor has decided to keep events going as scheduled.” Skye smiled in encouragement. “You know what they say. The show must go on.”

Murphy nodded halfheartedly, his baby blue eyes troubled. “Let me introduce you to the rest of our group.” He took her arm and propelled her toward three women who were tinkering with instruments. “Everyone, this is Sister Skye Denison, the person who hired us.”

They all said hello.

“Sister Skye, this is Sister Mirabel Elliott on drums, Sister Rosalind Gallen on guitar, and Sister Delilah Forsythe on keyboard.”

Mirabel had a halo of red hair and a sweet smile. Rosalind’s black hair fell like a veil around her shoulders, and she looked as if she should be cradling a baby instead of a guitar. Delilah was the odd woman out in the heavenly quartet. Her long brown hair was scraggly, and acne bloomed on her cheeks and chin.

They all made small talk for a bit, and then Skye excused herself to wander around and check out the crowd. As she strolled, her stomach growled, and she headed toward the Lions Club pork chop supper.

After filling a plate, she looked around for a free seat and heard someone call, “Skye, over here.”

Trixie was sitting alone at one end of the long row of tables.

Skye joined her, plopping her tray down, then climbing over the attached seat. “Hey, what’s up? Where’s Owen?”

“Not much.” Trixie grimaced. “He’s at home. One of the cows is sick. I knew it was a mistake to add livestock to the farm.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to babysit corn or soybeans.” Having grown up on a farm, Skye was well aware of the pitfalls of the occupation.

“It’s almost as if he deliberately bought the animals so we’d be even more tied down.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s not as if I’m asking him to get into life’s fast lane. I just want to occasionally get out of the driveway.”

Skye nodded sympathetically, but she didn’t have any suggestions. Instead, just before taking a big bite of grilled pork chop she asked, “How’s the bed-and-breakfast business going?”

“Not bad. The two couples are great. You’d hardly know they were there, but the single guy, Montgomery Lapp, is a pain in the you-know-where.”

Skye swallowed and asked, “How come?”

“First off, he’s an antiques buyer for a bunch of stores in Chicago—calls himself a picker. Anyway, the first day he’s with us I catch him snooping through the house, making a list.”

“A list?”

“Yeah. Turns out some of the stuff we got when Owen’s mother died is antique.”

“Make sure you check around about prices if you decide to sell,” Skye cautioned, thinking of Mrs. Griggs’s experience with Cookie and her mother’s encounter with Faith. “What else did he do?”

“He’s just so darn persnickety. He demanded that his sheets be ironed. He only eats a special kind of cereal, and has to have soy milk. We had to put the cats in the barn because he claims to be allergic, but, you know, if he really was allergic he’d still be sneezing, because cat dander is still all over the house. You can’t get it up even with a thorough cleaning.” Trixie heaved a dramatic sigh. “Worst of all, I’m the one at his beck and call. Owen promised to help if we took in paying guests, but now he’s always too busy.”

“This Lapp guy sounds like a real pill.” Skye took a sip of her lemonade, not commenting about Owen. No way was she getting in the middle of that fight.

Trixie shrugged. “Enough of my problems. What’s the scoop about the murder?” Her brown eyes sparkled with interest; she was not one to wallow for long in her own un-happiness.

Skye swallowed a bite of biscuit. “With Simon out of town and Wally not on the case, I don’t know a thing.”

“But she was found at your family’s farm stand, by your mother.” Trixie twisted a strand of short brown hair around her finger. “You must know something.”

“I don’t even know how she died.” She forked a piece of roasted potato into her mouth. This was heaven. She hadn’t eaten all day.

“Oh, oh!” Trixie bounced in her seat like a drop of water on a hot griddle. “I know. I know.”

“Really? How?”

“How do I know, or how did she die?”

“Both.” Skye made an effort to keep the impatience out of her voice. Trixie was Trixie, and there was no hurrying her.

“Monty, the pain-in-the-butt antique guy, said he heard that she was stabbed to death with a piece of jewelry.”

“How could someone be killed with a piece of jewelry?”

Trixie smiled triumphantly. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“And?”

“It was an old brooch. A huge, four-inch bar pin in the shape of an arrow with two intertwined hearts in the middle. He said someone stabbed her in the carotid artery with it, and when she pulled it out of herself, she bled to death.”

“How awful.” Skye frowned. Hadn’t she just heard something about a pin? She couldn’t remember. She’d seen and heard about too much junk in the past few days to recall anything in particular.

“They found the brooch clutched in her fist,” Trixie said with a shiver. “It reminds me of an Edgar Allan Poe story. ‘The Tell-Tale Arrow’ instead of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.”’

No longer hungry, Skye pushed her plate away. She didn’t want to imagine Cookie locked in a cabinet and dying alone. It was too distressing. And Skye felt somehow guilty, as if she could have done something. But what?

Cookie had banished Skye from her store, and she deliberately kept herself aloof from the people in Scumble River. Even yesterday afternoon, when she had been crying and Skye had offered her comfort, Cookie had been talking to herself more than to Skye. She hadn’t really shared anything. Still, Skye found it hard to accept that she couldn’t help everyone.

After their meal, Skye and Trixie walked back to the bandstand and listened to the Godly Crüe play.

“They sound pretty good,” Skye commented.

“They do. I wondered what a rock gospel band would be like.”

“So did I, but Dante insisted on squeaky-clean family entertainment, which is a lot harder to find than you might think.”

“It always amazes me that people like Dante can be so sanctimonious and still maintain a straight face.” Trixie’s grin was wicked. “How many coordinators did he sexually harass before the family talked you into taking the job?”

“Five.” Skye didn’t want to discuss Dante’s peccadilloes, so she looked around at the audience. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves.

“Hey, look over there.” Trixie jabbed Skye in the side with her elbow and pointed to an area near the bandstand. “Isn’t that Simon’s mother? But who is she with? He’s young enough to be her son.”

Skye’s gaze followed Trixie’s finger. “Oh, no. That’s the writer from the TV show. This can’t be good.”

“Are you going over there and find out what she’s up to?”

“I’d better not. It’s never smart to talk in front of a writer. You might find yourself in his next script. I’ll have a private chat with Bunny tomorrow.”

They walked a few steps farther, and then it was Skye’s turn to nudge Trixie in the ribs. “Catch what’s happening over to the right.” She had spotted Justin and his friends. Bitsy was clinging to Justin like the plastic wrap on a cheese slice.

Trixie whistled under her breath. “Frannie will certainly be unhappy if she finds out about this.”

“If?” Skye grimaced. “What do you mean
if
she finds out? Someone has probably already left her a message on her answering machine. What is Justin thinking?”

“Thinking?” Trixie scowled. “I swear, the entire male intellect is rivaled only by that of garden tools.”