Murder of a Smart Cookie: A Scumble River Mystery (16 page)

Instead, she patted Frannie’s hand and said, “Let me get you some water. I’ll be right back.”

Skye detoured into her bedroom and changed into shorts and a T-shirt, then grabbed a glass and filled it from a pitcher in the fridge.

She handed it to Frannie and sat back down. “Did Mrs. Boward say if she had called the police?”

Frannie took a gulp of water and shook her head. “No. I don’t think this is the first time Justin’s disappeared, but he hasn’t done it in the past year or so.”

“Do you have any idea where to look for him?”

Frannie chewed on the end of her ponytail. “Well …”

“Yes?”

“I know a couple of places where he went before.”

“And they are?” Skye prodded.

“Sometimes he’d camp out at the Recreation Club, and sometimes he’d stay at the old aerosol factory.”

“I’m guessing he had a way into these places other than the front door?”

Frannie nodded without looking up.

Skye considered the options. Both of the places Frannie mentioned were outside the city limits, thus under the jurisdiction of the county sheriff. No way was she calling Buck Peterson. If he found the boy, he’d probably arrest him for trespassing. “I’ll call Justin’s mom and see if he’s come home.”

“Okay.”

Frannie hadn’t moved when Skye returned from talking to Mrs. Boward. “He’s still not back, and you were right about her not wanting to call the police. She’ll give him twenty-four hours.”

Frannie moaned.

Skye argued with herself, but finally caved in. “First, you call your dad and tell him where you are. Then, if he’s okay with it, we’ll go check out Justin’s usual hideouts.”

This time Frannie’s moan was more of a whine, but she dutifully got up and walked toward the kitchen phone. From Frannie’s end of the conversation, Skye gathered that Xavier, Frannie’s dad, wasn’t pleased to hear she had snuck out of the house, but he agreed she could show Skye where Justin might be.

The carriage clock in the living room was striking midnight, but Skye didn’t feel like Cinderella as she struggled with what to say in the note she was writing to her parents—another good reason for living on her own with only a cat for a roommate. Bingo did not require a full accounting of her whereabouts every second of the day.

Before she could finish, her father’s pickup pulled into the driveway, and he ambled into the kitchen with a goofy grin on his face. A cloud of cigarette and beer fumes followed him like a dog on a leash.

Skye shook her head. Jed never, ever grinned—except when he’d had too much to drink. She turned to the teenager hovering behind her and said, “Frannie, wait for me in my car, okay?”

The girl opened her mouth to protest, but quickly closed it when she saw the expression on Skye’s face. “Yes, ma’am.”

After Frannie left, Skye said mildly, “Pretty late for a weeknight.”

“Yep. Ma’ll be sore.”

“She’s not home.”

“Oh?” A look of confusion crossed his features. “Where’s she at?”

“Dinner and a movie with Trixie.” Skye knew she should let her parents work out their difficulties themselves, but she hated to see them fight, so she gave in to the temptation to “fix” things. “You need to get into bed before she gets home.”

“Right.” Jed staggered down the hall toward his bedroom. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.”

Now Skye had to do something about the way he smelled. There was no time for a shower. “I’ll be right back.”

She ran outside and into the garage, waving as she passed the Bel Air where Frannie was sitting. She grabbed one of Jed’s work rags and sniffed. Ah, gasoline, grass, sweat—all the usual Jed odors. Just what she needed

Back in the house, she hurried down the hall, calling, “Dad? Dad?” Peeking around the bedroom door, she saw him lying across the bed in his underwear, snoring. Quickly, she ran the rag over him until the smell of beer and cigarettes was replaced with the scents of the normal Jed. She then snatched up his clothes, ran back outside, and threw them into the Bel Air’s trunk. She’d either wash them or get rid of them—whichever she had time for.

She was just closing the lid when her mother’s big white Olds pulled into the driveway. Phew, that had been close. Skye leaned into the Bel Air and said to Frannie, “One more second.”

May got out of the Olds and walked toward Skye. “Your father home?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give him any of your supper?”

“No.”

“Good.” May seemed to suddenly realize how late it was and that Skye was fully dressed and getting into her car. “Where are you going at this time of night?”

“How about you? Why were you out so late?”

“We missed the first show and had to go to the nine o’clock.” May smiled thinly. “Was your father worried?”

Skye crossed her fingers. May hadn’t specified what he was worried about. “Yes.”

As Skye explained the Justin problem, Trixie joined them.

When Skye finished, Trixie got into the Bel Air. “I’m going, too.”

“Me, too.” May claimed the other side of the backseat.

Not having the energy to argue, Skye got behind the wheel and started the car.

There was no sign of Justin at the Scumble River Recreation Club. Lots of people were camping out, in everything from ten-dollar army surplus pup tents to RVs that cost more than Skye’s cottage, but no one—at least no one still awake—had seen the boy.

The abandoned factory was a lot scarier to check out, but except for a family that had been unable to find a place to stay for the yard sale and had decided to use the empty building as their private motel, the women found nothing.

It was nearly two when Skye dropped Frannie off and closer to three by the time she got to bed herself.

When Skye dragged herself into the kitchen the next morning, she was shocked to see no sign of the evening’s activities on either of her parents’ faces. Jed didn’t appear at all hungover, and no one would have guessed that May’d had only three hours of sleep.

Skye felt like the portrait of Dorian Gray, her face reflecting her parents’ sins. As she flopped into a chair, May brought her a cup of tea. She sipped gratefully, hoping the hot liquid would perform some magic and stop the pounding in her head.

The throbbing crescendoed when May said, “Tell your father that I would appreciate it if he showered before coming to bed. He stunk like—”

Skye froze while her mother searched for the word she wanted. Had May’s sensitive nose detected the odor of cigarettes and beer?

“—an old toolbox last night.” May completed her thought and went back to doing the dishes.

Jed’s gaze met Skye’s as they both relaxed.

“Also,” May went on from the sink, “tell your father that yesterday was our anniversary.”

“Your anniversary is in June,” Skye reminded her mother.

“Not our wedding anniversary, the anniversary of our first date. We had dinner at the Riviera, and we always go back there and order the same thing—chicken and spaghetti. We’ve been doing it for over thirty-five years, but this time he forgot.”

Jed got up and walked toward May, his brow furrowed. “Ah, Ma, you know how bad my memory is.”

May whirled around and shook a soapy finger at him. “Jedidiah Denison, you know all the words of the F Troop theme song, the address of every model tractor dealer in the country, and the VIN from every truck you ever owned. Don’t be talking about a bad memory to me.”

Skye’s last view of her parents as she fled the kitchen for her bedroom was Jed decorated with soapsuds and May whacking him with the plastic spatula.

After she heard the back door slam twice, indicating that both her parents had left, Skye crept back into the kitchen and phoned Mrs. Boward. Justin still hadn’t returned. Skye urged the woman to call Wally, but she refused, saying she was sure her son would be back soon.

Skye chewed her thumbnail. Should she talk to Wally herself? She turned away from the phone and went to get dressed. Although she felt a certain responsibility, she wasn’t the boy’s mother. There was only so much she could do.

She still hadn’t made up her mind as to her next step when Trixie stumbled into Skye’s bedroom and sprawled across the bed. “What are you up to today?”

Skye finished putting her hair into a French braid and picked up a mascara wand. “Counting the days until the yard sale is over and I can have my life back.”

“How many?”

“Six.” Skye finished with her eyes and inserted gold hoops into her earlobes. “What are
you
doing today?”

“Guess I need to go pick up some more clothes.”

Skye phrased her next question carefully. “Have you considered making up with Owen?”

“Why should I? He hasn’t even noticed that I’m gone.”

“I’m surprised you let him drive you out of your own house.” Skye tried another strategy. “No wonder he hasn’t noticed.
He’s
not the one sleeping on a love seat.
He
has all the comforts of home.”

Trixie popped up and off the bed. “Hey, you’re right. Why should I be the one inconvenienced?”

“Sure. You take the house back.” Skye was hoping that proximity might solve Trixie and Owen’s problems.

“Right. He can sleep in the barn.”

So much for proximity being the answer.
Skye finished dressing, walked toward the door, and gave Trixie a little wave. “Call me, or find me around the yard sale, and tell me what happens.”

D
ante had various newspapers spread out across his desk when Skye arrived at the city hall. “Look at this.” He pointed to multiple pictures of himself at the press conference and memorial service. “Not bad, eh?”

Skye scanned the photos. “They’re great.” Dante appeared very dignified. “You’re the very picture of a modern small-town mayor.” She smiled to herself, doubting Dante would get the Gilbert and Sullivan reference.

“I put Scumble River on the map, just like I said I would.” Dante preened. “My press conference and the memorial were on the TV news last night. I bet that’ll bring even more people to the yard sale. We couldn’t afford to buy this kind of advertising.”

Skye shuddered at the thought of profiting from someone’s death. Too bad her uncle was probably right. People could be pretty morbid, and attendance would doubtlessly increase because of Cookie’s murder.

“Did you notice that there were no media people out front?” Dante asked, as if it had all been his idea. “And Buck said he’s done with the crime scene and Cookie’s store. We’re back in business, stronger than ever.”

“Great,” Skye said from the doorway, intent on making her getaway. “Well, I’d better get to work.” Dante in a good mood was almost scarier than Dante in a bad one.

Dante didn’t look up; his gaze was locked on a picture of himself. “Did you hear they found out who owns the pin that killed Cookie Caldwell?”

Skye halted her footsteps. “No. Who?”

“Alma Griggs.” Dante tore his attention from his own image. “Hard to believe an old lady like that could kill someone like Cookie.”

“Just because she owned the pin doesn’t mean she used it. It could have been lost, or she could have sold it, or—” Skye abruptly remembered Mrs. Griggs’s break-in. “—it could have been stolen.”

“Sure.” Dante’s focus was back on the newspapers. “Maybe.”

“Were there fingerprints on the pin?”

“Nope. Said with the blood and all, they couldn’t lift any.”

“Did they arrest Mrs. Griggs?”

“No. At least I didn’t hear that they did.” Dante scratched his chin. “They were questioning her, though.”

At that moment Dante’s phone rang, and Skye slipped out of his office.

She hurried into her own office and called next door to the police station. “Thea? This is Skye.”

“Hi, honey. How are you and your poor family? Imagine finding Miss Caldwell like that. Must have been a terrible shock.”

“Yes, it sure was, but Mom, Grandma, and Aunt Kitty are fine.”

“Who would have thought someone like Miss Caldwell was really rich and famous. You just can’t tell about people, can you?”

“No, you can never tell.” Skye doodled, waiting for Thea to wind down so she could ask her question. “So, is Sheriff Peterson still taking up space in your interrogation room?”

“Yes, and he’s real mean, not at all polite like Wally.”

“How awful.” Skye certainly agreed with Thea’s assessment of Buck Peterson. “Is that where he questioned poor Mrs. Griggs?”

“Yes. He dragged that sweet old woman here at six in the morning.”

“What a creep.” Skye closed in on her real query. “Did he arrest her?”

“No, but he’s itching to. One of his deputies mentioned that Miss Caldwell had been bothering Mrs. Griggs all summer, and I thought the sheriff’s head would explode. He yelled at that poor boy for twenty minutes for not telling him about that sooner.”

“Guess maybe he should read the reports made to his own office.”

“That’s what Wally said.” Thea’s satisfaction with her boss was evident in her voice. “The sheriff didn’t like hearing that at all.”

Skye wondered at Wally’s motives. He wasn’t a stupid man, so he must have had a reason for needling Sheriff Peterson.

When Skye left the office to start her patrol of the yard sale, she was amazed at the size of the crowd. Even though she and Dante had anticipated an increase in attendance because of the publicity surrounding the murder, it was happening sooner than she had expected. It was a Tuesday, for heaven’s sake. Didn’t anyone work anymore? She found it hard to believe that so many people were taking their summer vacation in Scumble River.